


Pieces Form the Whole

by eowyn_of_rohan



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Comeplay, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Facials, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Light Dom/sub, Long-Term Relationship(s), Love at First Sight, M/M, Multi-year saga, Occasional light bondage, POV First Person, Rimming, Romance, Sam Seaborn for President
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-17 07:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 91,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5859391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eowyn_of_rohan/pseuds/eowyn_of_rohan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josh (age 24) and Sam (age 20) meet in the summer of 1984, fall in love, and enter into a committed, non-closeted relationship.  They still end up on Bartlet’s Senior Staff; Bartlet does not have MS.  Sam is elected to the Senate in a special election in 2001, and becomes President after Bartlet’s second term.  This is the saga of how they make their way together despite their anxieties, insecurities, and bouts of occasional outright idiocy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May 1984

**Author's Note:**

> I never intended to post this; I really wrote it for myself, and it is still a WIP. So far I've written 136 chapters of the 229 I've plotted in outline form, and it's taken me almost 8 months to get this far. I'm sure the boys are OOC in parts and that some stuff is totally farfetched. But whatever, I'm posting it anyway.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I swear to God, I think I just fell in love. I know nothing about this guy. I don’t know his name or age or where he’s from. He might be an axe murderer or one of those guys who thinks NASA faked the moon landing. He might even be a Republican.

SAM POV

Of all the ways I thought I might fall in love, I never entertained the thought that it would be by looking across the Capitol Rotunda and locking eyes with a complete stranger. Okay, so I’m a romantic at heart and the whole ‘love at first sight’ ideal has always been alluring, but I’m too rational to think that it’s possible to lose your heart in a nanosecond before even saying hello.

At least, I _was_ too rational to think that.

All I’m doing is standing against a pillar, scanning the headlines in the _Washington Post_ and trying hard to look like I belong here and I’m not some shy college student overwhelmed by the majesty of the halls of Congress on day four of my summer internship. I have zero warning that everything in my life is about to be upended. I’m reading about a surge in gas prices and checking my watch discreetly to count down the minutes until I need to be in Congressman McHenry’s staff office when I hear a laugh echo off the stone walls surrounding me.

I look up instinctively and see the source of the laughter is a guy standing about fifteen feet away. At that moment for whatever reason -- fate, kismet, coincidence -- he meets my gaze. He’s got a shock of dark reddish-brown hair, a backpack slung over his shoulder, and a killer pair of dimples. For an interminable moment he simply looks at me, cocking his head slightly and his grin deepening, and then he turns back to the young woman he’s standing with to continue their conversation. I try to focus on the paper again, but it’s futile. I feel oddly vulnerable and glance up to see if the guy is looking at me again.

No, he’s walking away. My heart starts hammering in my chest as I watch him fade from sight, and I’m left completely unnerved. There’s no confusion about why he caught my eye; let’s not kid ourselves here. I’ve never questioned the fact that I’m gay, even if I’m scared shitless about telling anyone (including guys who might have the potential to be a boyfriend). This mystery man is hardly the first guy to catch my eye and make my pulse race. Objectively speaking, I’d be pretty stupid not to notice this guy -- cute face, great body, and a hell of a smile. But that’s not what this is about.

I swear to God, I think I just fell in love. I know nothing about this guy. I don’t know his name or age or where he’s from. He might be an axe murderer or one of those guys who thinks NASA faked the moon landing. He might even be a Republican. He’s probably straight and would be totally disgusted by the knowledge that I’m thinking about what it would be like to kiss the corner of his mouth, right next to one of those dimples. This is not good. Fantasizing about a stranger while standing in the Capitol building is not a good idea, and neither is deluding myself into thinking I really fell in love just now. My mind must be playing tricks with me. I’m probably just hungry. Maybe I should grab a bagel before I go to work. Yes, a bagel will fix everything.

******

“Sam?”

I look up from my notebook and find McHenry’s chief of staff standing in front of me, causing me to jump to my feet and knock my cup of coffee all over my desk. “Mr. Scarletti! What can I do for you?” I frantically mop up the spilled coffee and pretend I don’t notice him holding back laughter.

“Take this to Congressman Brennan’s office in Suite 220,” he tells me, dropping a file folder on a dry corner of the desk. “Give it to his new Floor Manager and remind that son of a bitch he can’t call a committee meeting on the education tax credit without including McHenry unless he wants us to pull backing from Brennan’s poverty initiative.” Mr. Scarletti turns and leaves without waiting for a response. I’m quickly learning that being a Congressional intern isn’t very good for one’s ego; in the minds of the paid staffers we’re one rung below the leech on the evolutionary ladder.

I grab the folder and walk down the hall until I reach Brennan’s suite, which is a warren of activity. Unsure of how to get someone’s attention -- what’s the polite way to announce that you’re a newbie intern here to chew out a staffer on their own turf on someone else’s behalf? -- I stand there dumbly until a receptionist takes pity on me and asks if she can be of assistance.

“I’m looking for the Congressman’s Floor Manager,” I tell her, realizing how stupid I must sound if I don’t even know this guy’s name.

“Josh!” the woman calls across the room. “There’s a kid here to see you.” Flames of embarrassment color my cheeks at being called a kid. Fine, so I’m only 20 years old and look even younger than that. I’m still an adult and this isn’t going to help my cause.

Then I realize my cause is all but lost, because there’s a guy walking across the room -- strutting, really -- and it’s the same fucking guy from this morning. Same crazy hair, same grin, same fucking guy. Let it never be said the universe doesn’t delight in tormenting me. “You’re the Congressman’s Floor Manager?” I squeak. He looks like he’s only a few years older than I am.

“Josh Lyman,” he says, taking my hand for a firm shake. He’s still grinning.

“I work for Congressman McHenry,” I explain. “I was sent to give you this folder.”

“Ah-kay.” He takes the folder and tucks it under his arm as he lets his hand fall from mine. “Let me guess, you were also sent here to ream me out?”

“Something like that.”

“Tell Scarletti I don’t want McHenry in that meeting and neither does my boss, because we both know _your_ boss is going to try and attach a rider to the tax credit that will slash money for afterschool programs, and tell him that threatening to pull support of the poverty initiative will only solidify McHenry’s reputation as a Democrat In Name Only who makes Ebenezer Scrooge look like fucking Gandhi.” He recites his little speech with fervor only to flash me another grin at the end of it. The combination is enough to make me weak at the knees, and this time I can’t blame it on hunger.

“Well...I don’t think I’ll tell him _that_ ,” I manage to respond. “But I can summarize your position and convey it to my boss.”

“Good.”

“Lyman, come on!” a man yells from across the room. “Quit fucking around with that kid and help us with this draft!”

“I should let you get back to work,” I stammer. “It was nice meeting you.”

His grin softens and the smile reaches his eyes. Beautiful eyes, I think. They’re a rich brown with little flecks of green and gold, and this is so not the train of thought I want to be following right now. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“My name?”

“You know my name, I’d like to know your name.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s flirting with me. But I do know better. “Sam Seaborn.”

“Okay, then. I’ll see you around.”

Josh turns and struts back to his coworkers, and I am trying so hard not to look like I’m running like hell out of Suite 220. I am merely moving at a brisk pace that has nothing to do with the fact that I’m terrified by how much Congressman Brennan’s very young, very cute Floor Manager is affecting me. Please dear God, don’t let me ever run into him again. My grip on sanity is tenuous enough as it is.


	2. June 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Great strategy, Lyman. Tell the guy you’re attempting to woo that he looks like jailbait. Really, that’s brilliant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Josh's best friend in this work is Matt Skinner.

JOSH POV

“There are many times when I wonder why I’m friends with you, and this is one of them,” I bitch.

“Yeah, like you already had plans for this afternoon,” Matt ripostes.

“Isn’t this what your boyfriend is for?” I whine. “Helping you put together furniture is so domestic.”

“What would you know about domestic? When’s the last time you got past a third date?”

“Hey, I’m only 24. I’m supposed to be sowing wild oats.”

“You need a boyfriend.”

“Hardly.”

Matt smirks as we ease the last drawer into the dresser and give it a shake to test its stability. “Trust me, my friend -- there is far greater satisfaction to be found in love than lust.”

“And here I was thinking Republicans don’t have souls,” I quip.

“You always think you’re so clever.”

“My cleverness is on a frequency not easily detected by mere mortals.”

“Okay, now that the furniture is done you can feel free to get out of my apartment,” Matt laughs.

“You only want me around for my brawn.”

“And to make me feel good about myself by comparison.”

I toe my sneakers back on as I prepare to leave. “I’m stealing a beer!” I yell from the kitchen.

“Get out, Lyman!” Matt yells back. “Go find a fucking boyfriend!”

*****

I don’t believe in fate. For the life of me, I can’t explain why I decide to walk home instead of getting on the Metro, or why I decide to take the scenic route across the Mall. It’s a nice day. Why read anything into it? Hell, maybe I should even stop and take a breather on a sunny patch of grass. I never allow myself these little moments, and I have to admit this is kind of nice.

“Mr. Lyman?”

I swivel around and try to keep my jaw from dropping at the sight of Sam Seaborn standing in front of me. Matt’s parting words taunt me -- _Go find a fucking boyfriend!_ Maybe I’ll have to give fate a little more credit going forward. Though to be honest, my thoughts about Sam have tended less toward the domestic and more toward the pornographic. I’ve only actually met him once but that was more than enough to fill my head with a panoply of fantasies about the most gorgeous boy I’ve ever seen.

“You can call me Josh,” I tell him, trying to sound like I’m not aroused by him standing here all shy and adorable. “How you doin’, Sam?”

“You remember me?”

Oh Sam, if only you had any idea how much of an impression you make. “Sam Seaborn from Congressman McHenry’s office,” I say, giving him what I hope is a disarming grin. I pat the ground next to me in invitation. “So what can I do for you?”

He joins me on the grass and looks everywhere but directly at me. “I just thought I should say hi when I saw you sit down.”

“What are you doing on the Mall?”

“Nothing really. This summer is my first time in Washington and I thought I should make an effort to come here.”

“Where are you from?”

“Laguna Beach, California. What about you?”

“Westport, Connecticut. Where are you going to school?”

“Princeton. I’ll be a junior next year.”

That would make him, what? 20 years old? Somehow I feel like a dirty old man. “Ah, Princeton. My condolences.”

“Condolences for what?”

“For not going to Harvard.”

Sam laughs and finally looks at me. Goddamn, he is impossibly beautiful. I’ve never seen eyes that color blue before. “So I guess it’s true what they say about all Harvard grads being pompous egomaniacs.”

“Damn straight!” That gets another laugh and my own smile is making my cheeks hurt. “So how do you like your internship?”

“I like working in Congress,” he says carefully.

“Not a fan of your boss?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You obfuscated. Let me guess -- you’re planning on law school? You’re already parsing your words like a pro.”

“I’m thinking about it.” He tilts his head sideways and squints. “Did you go to law school?”

“Yeah, I graduated last month actually. I just started with Brennan three weeks ago.”

“I was thinking you were pretty young to be a Floor Manager when I met you.”

I bite back my standard brag about how I’m the youngest Floor Manager in Congress. Something about Sam makes me want to talk about myself rather than my résumé. “It’s all pretty new to me. I know there are a lot of people who don’t take me seriously because I’m 24.” I offer him a sympathetic look. “My guess is you can relate to that, since you look barely old enough to shave.” Great strategy, Lyman. Tell the guy you’re attempting to woo that he looks like jailbait. Really, that’s brilliant.

“I turned 20 in March,” he says indignantly.

“So you can shave but you can’t go into a bar,” I tease.

“Where did you go to law school?”

I blink, confused by his mental pivot. “Uh, Yale.”

“Harvard _and_ Yale?”

“I’m an overachiever,” I say blithely.

“Let me guess, you got a 1600 on your SATs?”

“1540. 760 verbal, 780 math.”

Sam grins. “I got an 800 on my verbal.”

“And your math?”

“Let’s not talk about that one.”

I can’t remember the last time talking to a guy was this easy. Maybe I do still want to do a number of obscene and quite possibly illegal things to him – but that’s not all I want. God, Matt is never going to let me live this down if he finds out that Josh Lyman has been felled by a pair of blue eyes and a sweet smile. “So we’re trading random factoids about our lives now?” He nods eagerly and I chuckle. “Middle name?”

“Norman.”

“Seriously? Wow, I’m sorry.”

“It’s a family name!” he protests. “What about you?”

“Aaron. Joshua Aaron Lyman -- can you tell I’m Jewish?”

“I’m Episcopalian,” he volunteers. “And I’m an only child.”

“Me too,” I lie, not wanting to open the secret drawer in my mind where I keep Joanie’s memory. “You dating anyone?”

“No, no. No. No girlfriend.” That’s four no’s, followed by a blush creeping across his cheeks. I’m tempted to read something into that. “You?”

“Uh, no. No boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Wow, that was a jump in octaves.

“I’m gay,” I tell Sam in the most nonchalant tone of voice I can muster, as if it wouldn’t devastate me if he called me a faggot and stormed off. He’s staring at me in complete shock, as if I told him that the earth is about to be colonized by aardvarks. The longer he stares at me, the further my stomach drops.

“Really?” His gaze drops to the grass.

“Yes, really.”

He gulps in a deep breath and makes eye contact with me again, and I’m jolted by what I see in his expression -- raw fear. In a flash I realize it’s not fear of me, not fear that his new friend is a deviant who wants to ravish him. It’s a fear I recognize all too well. It’s the fear that he’s been recognized for who he is.

This certainly makes things more interesting.

“Okay,” Sam says, so faintly I wonder if I dreamed it.

“Hey, listen -- you said it’s your first time in Washington, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t know anyone?”

“Just my roommate and a couple of interns I have lunch with.”

“Excellent. Tomorrow night I’m having a few friends over for dinner. Nothing big, just a potluck kind of thing. You’re welcome to join us.”

A beaming smile splits his face and it’s impossible not to smile back. I’m in so much trouble with this one. “I’d love to. What can I bring?”

“Whatever you’d like. I’m at 720 McAdams Street, Apartment 2C. Stop by around 6:00 on Sunday.”

“I’ll be there, definitely.”

“Good.” I stand up and stretch. “I should get going. I’m allergic to nature.”

Sam laughs and gives a little wave goodbye as I bound off down the edge of the reflecting pool and head home. _Go find a fucking boyfriend_ , Matt said. Well, now he’ll have to help me put together a last-minute potluck dinner so I have an excuse to get Samuel Norman Seaborn of Laguna Beach into my apartment.


	3. June 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That is one goofy-ass grin. That is not my normal I-just-had-great-sex grin. Yeah, I am in so much fucking trouble with this one.

JOSH POV

By the time the next afternoon rolls around I’ve managed to get four friends to commit to dinner. It involves much begging and pleading and, in Matt’s case, telling him the whole scheme I have in mind. When he laughs at me I remind him he’s the one who told me to find a boyfriend, so he can’t back out now. He tells me he’ll never let me live this down and I have no doubt about that. Matt extends the invitation to his boyfriend, Todd, and I convince two other friends, Fiona and Jack, to join in. I am very confident that this will end in either having a great new friend or -- ideally -- having Sam naked and writhing in my bed.

I don’t like to cook, so I keep it simple. I supply the venue, the beverages, and an array of miniature fruit tarts from the gourmet bakery around the corner. Sam doesn’t show up until close to 6:30 and I’m trying to appear nonchalant as the minutes tick by without his arrival. Matt’s the only one who knows my true motivation for tonight’s gathering, and he gives me a sympathetic smile whenever he catches me looking toward the door as if I can make Sam materialize. Finally the buzzer rings and I nearly trip over my chair leaping out of it in my hurry to let him in.

“Hey,” he says with a shy grin. “Sorry, I got lost.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re still new to D.C.” I’m so happy to see him I’m almost bouncing on the balls of my feet, and I hope I don’t look like a maniac.

“Um, I brought homemade guacamole and chips. The guacamole is homemade, anyway. The chips are from the grocery store.”

“Sounds perfect. Come on in, you should meet everyone.”

I take the food from Sam and walk him into the apartment. He greets everyone with a smile, but it’s not the same shy -- almost intimate -- grin he gave me a few seconds ago. When Matt introduces Todd as his boyfriend, Sam’s expression becomes more relaxed. Honestly, I would have invited Matt and Todd no matter what, but I had hoped that the mix of friends both gay and straight would convey to Sam that he could be himself here. It works. His bashfulness ebbs as he takes a seat next to me and wades into a conversation with Fiona about the books they’re reading. Matt is clearly trying to suss out as much information as he can from Sam, and he’s pretty damned stealthy about it. His ploy succeeds and by the end of the dinner I know Sam’s birthday (March 17th), his favorite movie ( _Star Wars_ \-- that bodes well for me), his major at Princeton (political science, naturally), and his hobbies (sailing, reading, and watching the news). Most of the dinner conversation ends up being getting-to-know-you banter between me and Sam, and if the rest of my friends didn’t already suspect why they were corralled at the last minute for tonight’s meal, I imagine they’ve figured it out by the time dessert is served.

The meal winds down and I end up in the kitchen with Matt, who looks over his shoulder to make sure Sam is out of earshot. “I can see why you like him.”

“He’s pretty hard not to like.”

“Doesn’t hurt that he looks like a _Tiger Beat_ cover boy.”

I toss a dishtowel at Matt’s face. “Shut up.”

“You don’t usually make time to introduce guys to your friends _before_ you’ve taken them to bed.”

“Well…” I’m at a loss for words.

“He’s young.”

“You’re 28. Everyone’s young to you.”

“Josh,” he warns. “He’s a good kid.”

“He’s an adult, Matt.”

“Do you know what you’re doing here?”

“You told me to find a boyfriend.”

“And you decide to romance the first guy you can find to prove a point?”

“It’s not like that!” I’m about to start ranting when I see his smirk. “What?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to hear you admit it.”

I finish loading the dishwasher and turn to face him, crossing my arms over my chest. “Admit what?”

“That this isn’t your usual fuck-and-run way of doing things.”

“It’s not,” I say quietly. “This is different. He’s...he’s special.”

Matt claps me on the shoulder. “Then go for it. Just try not to fuck it up too badly.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime.” Matt goes into the dining room to say his good night to Sam and collect his boyfriend. Jack and Fiona have already left, and a comfortable silence descends.

Sam sprawls out on the couch, taking small sips from his beer and gazing around the room. I settle next to him, our knees touching, and if I’d blinked I would have missed the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly. “Thanks again for inviting me.”

“You’re welcome.” If only he knew he was the reason the potluck happened in the first place. “Your guacamole was the hit of the evening.”

“It’s an easy recipe.”

“You don’t need to be modest, Sam. It was fucking delicious.”

He laughs and tilts his head to look at me. “The secret is broiling the onions before you put them in the guac.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I can’t cook to save my life.”

“My grandmother taught me. She thought men should know how to cook as well as women. So all the dishes I learned to cook are from her. She turned my dad and his brother into gourmet chefs as well.”

“Is she still around?”

“She passed away last year – ovarian cancer. She was raising hell marching for environmental protection and reproductive rights and every other liberal cause until just about the day she died.” Sam finishes his beer and places the bottle on the floor. “My parents are fairly apolitical, and she was the one who raised me to care about what’s happening in the world. I think...I mean, I’m pretty sure she knew about me.”

“That you’re gay,” I say carefully.

“I never told her but I got the feeling she knew. I never told anyone.” His gaze is unflinching as he turns it on me. “How old were you when you came out?”

“Thirteen.”

“Thirteen?”

“Yeah.”

“Were your parents okay with it?”

“My mom burst into tears and then hugged me and said she was crying because she was proud of me for telling them. My father was completely thrown off for about ten seconds, then told me he’d support me no matter what.”

“Seriously?”

“It was easy for me to tell them,” I admit. “I always knew I was different, but I couldn’t put my finger on why until my eighth grade class trip when I sat next to Bobby Mullen and kept telling him bad jokes on the four hour bus ride in the hopes he might kiss me if I made him laugh hard enough.”

“Did it work?” He shares a hopeful smile, and I swear to God my heart is about to leap out of my chest.

“No,” I snort. “Though not for lack of trying. Anyway, after that…I guess I just couldn’t be bothered to give a fuck if people were gonna judge me.”

“I knew I was gay when I was eleven,” he tells me, and the words are clear and unequivocal. “I’ve tried to make myself like girls, I’ve tried to…”

“To be someone else?” I ask sympathetically.

“It doesn’t work very well.”

“It never does.” I decide to go for broke. “Sam, there’s nothing about you that could be improved by pretending to be someone else.”

His eyes widen a fraction, then before I can react his lips are pressed against mine and his hand cups my cheek. I lean into him and part my lips, allowing his tongue to slip into my mouth, and slide an arm around his waist to pull him almost into my lap. The kiss is clumsy and hesitant and absolutely perfect, and I cling to Sam like he’s essential to drawing breath. Maybe he really is. ‘This is it,’ I think dimly. ‘This is what it feels like to fall in love.’

*****

**SAM POV**

When I was sixteen years old I handled a bad day at school by going cliff diving and ended up with a black eye and bruised cheekbone from hitting the water at the wrong angle. At home that night, my mom and dad assumed my injuries were the result of yet another beatdown from the jock clique who lived to make my life hell, and I did nothing to correct that notion. By that time I was an expert at letting people come to the wrong conclusions if it kept me from getting in trouble, and I shuddered to think about my mother’s wrath if she knew I’d pulled such a stunt. I had flown for one brief moment, airborne in a blue sky under a full sun, and it was a terrifying kind of bliss.

So here I am now, kissing Josh with everything I have, and I’m diving off a cliff all over again. And I should be afraid that bruises will result -- not on my face but somewhere deeper inside of me, in the part of my chest that aches when Josh pulls me closer and licks my bottom lip -- but this is the freest I’ve felt in all my life. I came out to someone and the world didn’t end. I kissed this gorgeous, brilliant guy and he’s kissing me back. His mouth tastes like beer and strawberry tart; the feel of his body under the thin cotton of his tee-shirt is warm and solid. I cannot get enough.

The sound of my zipper is jarringly loud, clashing with the heavy sounds of our breathing, and I jolt as Josh slides a hand into my jeans to stroke me through my underwear. “Wait, no!” I gasp, pulling back. I immediately regret my startled outburst as I see Josh look like he’s been slapped. Shit. “Not on the couch,” I stammer. I want this to be perfect. I don’t want my first time to be a quickie on a couch.

Josh exhales his relief and kisses me again. “Bedroom sound better?”

“Definitely.”

“You know we don’t have to…” He gestures vaguely. “You’ve never been with a guy before, Sam. I’m not expecting--”

“I know that I want this. I want you.”

He takes a shuddering breath. “Then we should definitely move this inside.”

Linking our fingers, he pulls me insistently into his small bedroom and pushes me onto the bed. Josh stays standing as he strips off his faded blue tee-shirt and toes off his socks, then removes his jeans. I mirror his actions with trembling fingers, leaving myself only in briefs, and my eyes never leave his body. He’s lean but muscular, his biceps and chest more defined than I expected based on his loose-fitting wardrobe. Then there’s...well...the absolutely huge bulge in his navy blue boxers. And now he’s removing the boxers, and holy shit. It’s not like I didn’t jerk myself raw last night thinking about what it might be like if the night ended up going this way -- hey, I’m an optimist at heart -- but I wasn’t quite expecting _this_. Josh’s cock is long and thick and gorgeous, curving up to his flat stomach and glistening with a pearly bead of precum, and I need to get the hell out of my briefs before I embarrass myself by cumming in them solely from thinking about what it’ll be like to have him inside me.

“Wait, let me,” he says in a hoarse voice as he sees my fingers reach for the waistband of my underwear. He climbs on the bed and strips off the last item of clothing between us, and I’m pinned to the bed by his gaze roaming over every inch of me, almost moaning when his tongue darts out to flick against his top lip. Josh wants me. Josh is hard and it’s because of me. This is a terrifying kind of bliss if ever there was one.

I pull him down for another kiss and gasp as our bodies meet, chests and legs and cocks pressing together. “Please,” I whimper. I have no idea what I’m asking him to do. I just want more, I want everything.

Josh fixes me with a hard stare. “You’re sure?”

“I already said--”

“Just tell me you’re sure and I promise I won’t ask you again. You said you’ve never done this with a guy before.”

“With anyone,” I blurt out. “I’ve never...I’m…”

“Ah-kay.” He’s stunned. “Ah-kay. Well...you’re sure about this?”

I nod eagerly. “I want this, Josh. Please, I really fucking want this.” I almost tell him how I fantasized about him last night, and a few nights before that, and the first night after I met him. Thank God I’m able to hold my tongue for once in my life.

“Then I won’t ask again.” That killer grin makes another appearance and it’s a good thing I’m already lying down because I’m lightheaded from the way that smile makes me feel. It’s even sexier, to me, than the sight of his entire body laid against mine. Well, maybe the two are equal. His cock is pressed against my thigh, hard and pulsing, and I shiver helplessly as my legs fall open of their own accord. “Never with anyone, huh?” he murmurs. His eyes hold no trace of mocking, merely arousal.

“Never,” I whisper.

“So nobody’s ever done this to you?” He reaches between us and takes my erection in his warm hand, his thumb sweeping lightly over the head.

“N-no.”

“Damn. Lucky me.” The grin is a full-fledged smirk. “So I get to be the first one to make you cum?”

“Yes…” I’m rapidly losing the power of speech as he begins to jerk me off with slow, firm strokes. His lips latch on to one of my nipples, licking and sucking gently, then kissing across my breastbone to the other nub and biting it just enough to make me gasp.

“You’re terra incognita,” he mutters against my skin, and his tongue sends shivers through me as it skates over my ribcage. “All mine to discover.”

“All yours,” I gasp, thrusting into the tunnel of his fist.

Josh kisses down my stomach as he grips my prick tightly. I stare as his head goes even lower and then hold my breath at the sight of his mouth hovering over the dripping head of my cock; I can’t help the shaky moan that escapes me when he takes me in his mouth, sucking hard and fast. I’m lost in a haze of pleasure, jackknifing off the mattress when he takes my cock all the way into his throat. This is better than I ever dreamed, especially when his fingers dance lightly over my inner thighs before cupping and stroking my balls. I don’t even have time to register the impending embarrassment of climaxing so quickly before it’s over, and it happens so fast I don’t have a chance to warn Josh to pull off. He pins my hips down and doesn’t flinch as I shoot my load down his throat, moaning low as he swallows around me. If my stammering admission that I’m a virgin wasn’t awkward enough, now I’m showing that I have zero staying power. This is not the perfect first time I hoped for. I close my eyes, humiliated, then they snap open at the sound of Josh’s voice.

“I figured you needed to take the edge off and relax a little,” he says, his smile wide and open as he meets my questioning gaze.

“Oh.” What the hell else can I say?

“Sam,” he murmurs, moving up until his lips brush mine. His mouth is sticky and warm, and the taste of myself on his tongue drives me wild. I reach down to take him in hand, relishing the gasp Josh lets out when my fingers close around his cock. “You gotta hold off on that or I’m gonna cum.”

“I thought that was the point,” I tease, kissing along his jawline.

“No, I want to fuck you.” He regards me carefully, hopefully. “Can I?”

Yeah, that sounds pretty good to me. I grin and that’s the only signal he needs; I allow him to push me back onto the mattress and spread my legs, watching mesmerized as he blazes another path of kisses down my body, letting his lips brush ever-so-briefly over my hip and inner thigh. My cock is beginning to stir again, and when Josh drags his tongue over my balls it’s all I can do to keep myself from rocketing off the bed. One of his hands pushes against my thigh, spreading me open even further, and I whine without shame when he suddenly stops what he’s doing so he can root around in the drawer of his nightstand. “I don’t want to stop either, but we kind of need this,” he explains, his voice low and rough. In his hand is a bottle of lubricant and a foil packet, and if my cock wasn’t already at full attention it’s right there now. He slicks the fingers of one hand and then goes back to his earlier task, tracing one lubed finger down the length of my erection before finding my hole and pushing in up to the first knuckle. “You okay?” The finger sinks all the way in.

“Yeah...yeah. I’ve done _this_ part before.”

“I thought you said...oh.” Comprehension dawns on his face and his lips curl into a devilish grin as he presses a second finger inside me. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Keep this up and I’ll make it a free show.” I plant my feet on the mattress and spread my legs wider, sliding down further on the long fingers as they scissor and stretch me. Yes, I’ve done this to myself before, dozens of times since that night my senior year of high school when I finally worked up the nerve to try it, but it’s nothing like having someone else touching me in this way -- having _Josh_ touch me in this way. When he works a third finger inside and curls them, my whole body goes taut.

“You ready?” His voice is strained and I can see his cock leaking copious amounts of precum.

I answer by pulling him down for a kiss and bucking against his fingers while I suck on his tongue. God, I never thought I’d be this uninhibited the first time I did this. To be honest, I never gave much specific thought about what I would be like, I just had some shadowy fantasies because the reality left me scared witless, knowing I’d have to take the leap to come out to somebody, anybody in order to get to this point. The fact that I came out to Josh after spending only a couple of hours with him, to say nothing of how I’m now laid out before him, naked and writhing as he preps me for his cock, makes no sense. It makes absolutely no sense, and whatever I try to think about beyond _that_ makes no sense either now that Josh’s fingers have left me and he’s looking at me with a gentle gaze that renders me speechless.

“C’mere,” he says softly, but he’s the one who leans down and presses a kiss to my lips. It’s chaste and sweet, and maybe this does make sense after all. I wasn’t going crazy when I saw him in the Capitol Rotunda that morning. I’m in love with Josh, whether it’s rational or not, and that’s why I can’t be bothered to be scared.

Josh rocks back on his heels long enough to roll the condom over his cock and slick it with lubricant, then urges my legs around his waist as he nudges the blunt head of his erection against my hole. I hold his gaze and give him the barest nod, and he pushes forward, breaching me. Even three fingers didn’t prepare me for the extraordinary pressure of his cock entering my body, and I can’t stop a soft cry of shock. Immediately Josh stops moving. After giving me a few seconds to adjust, he inches in further and dips his head to graze his teeth over one of my nipples. I tighten my legs around his waist and arch up, slowly relaxing enough for him to push in until I can feel the weight of his balls against my ass.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” I whisper back. It trails off into a gasp as Josh rocks his hips, then gives a shallow thrust.

“Good?”

“Yes.” Good to see that both of us have been reduced to monosyllabic communication. “Josh…” Really, I don’t know what I’d do if I had to say his full name right now. I don’t think I’d be able to string two syllables together, especially not when he thrusts again, then again. He builds up a slow but firm rhythm, his hands bracketing my head and his mouth descending on mine for a deep kiss. Driving in at a slightly sharper angle, his cock hits my prostate and I almost cum right then. As it is, I buck hard and cry out into the kiss, spurring him to thrust faster until I realize he’s truly _fucking_ me and not treating me like the blushing virgin I was until about five minutes ago.

“You feel so fucking good, Sam,” he gasps against my lips.

“Don’t stop,” I plead with a touch more desperation than I’d like.

“Why would I ever want to stop?” he laughs breathlessly. “You feel _perfect_.” His head is pressed into the crook of my neck as he keeps thrusting, so he can’t see my beaming smile. I feel perfect to him. He feels perfect to me. I shiver as he licks my collarbone and follows a drop of sweat down my chest with his tongue. The steady sound of flesh hitting flesh fills the room and the smell of sex rises around us, and it takes me a second to process that I’m the one making those loud, desperate moans.

Knowing I can’t last much longer I grab my cock and pump it in time with Josh’s thrusts, and if I could focus I’d pay more attention to how his eyes darken as he watches me jerk myself off. I try to file that knowledge away for future reference, as I’m absolutely determined to have many more times in bed with him, but it’s becoming impossible to think about anything other than the steady drilling of his cock deep within me and my hand speeds up, a sharp gasp falling from my lips as he hits my prostate again. One more thrust and I’m gone, arching up almost violently and cumming all over my stomach. Josh cries out my name as I tighten around him, and he pistons his hips another two times before he reaches his own climax. It’s earth-shattering. It’s perfection.

Cliff diving has nothing on sex with Josh Lyman.

*****

**JOSH POV**

Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up.

“This is usually when I start trying to get the other guy to go home.”

And I couldn’t have fucked it up any harder than I just did. Well done, Lyman.

“Oh.” Sam looks suitably dazed for reasons that have nothing to do with the fact he just lost his virginity. Fix this _now_.

“I said _usually_ ,” I stammer. “Usually but not this time.”

“Oh.”

Shit, what does that mean? Is he upset or does he simply think I’m an idiot? I am an idiot, by the way. A complete and utter idiot. “I’m bad at this, Sam.”

He looks at me, blue eyes wide. “Granted I don’t have much experience but it seemed pretty great to me.”

Does he have any concept of how adorable he is? “I didn’t mean _that_. I mean everything else. I’m fantastic when it comes to sex, I know that, but the rest of it is a big mess.”

“Fantastic? That may be pushing it.” He’s teasing now and I can’t help the smile that steals across my face.

“Hey, I distinctly remember watching you cum not once but _twice_ in the past half hour.”

“Not sure you can take credit for that.”

“Why not?!”

“I’m young and resilient.” Those gorgeous eyes are sparkling with bemusement.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” I grumble. But I smile as I duck down for a quick kiss. “You’re also kind of a mess. Stay here.”

“Where would I go?” Sam asks, bewildered.

“I don’t know. Just…whatever.” I get up and go to the bathroom, getting rid of the condom and then soaking a washcloth in warm water and wringing it out. As I turn to go back to my bed, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror and I’m taken aback by the grin on my face. That is one goofy-ass grin. That is not my normal I-just-had-great-sex grin. Yeah, I am in so much fucking trouble with this one. I traipse back to bed and drop the washcloth unceremoniously on Sam’s chest.

“Thanks,” he laughs.

“Don’t mention it.” Okay, so it’s not weird if I lie here and watch him clean himself up -- right?

“So you were saying you’re bad at this.”

“Yes.”

“The everything-but-sex part of this.”

“Exactly.”

“Did you say that to give yourself an excuse to cut and run, or are you trying to warn me off?”

I frown. “Neither.”

Sam studies me with an inscrutable gaze as he idly sweeps the cloth over the spatters of cum on his golden skin. “Neither?”

“I don’t want to cut and run, and I don’t want to warn you off. But I have no idea what you’re expecting from me and you just trusted me to take you to bed, and I figured the least I could do is tell you honestly that this is the part where I usually start plotting my escape.”

“Usually, but not with me,” he clarifies.

“Definitely not with you! I want you to stay,” I tell him earnestly. “It’s just that you deserve fair warning that I can be stupid when it comes to dating. I really don’t even date, per se.”

“But you want to date _me_.” He sounds half-shocked, half-smug.

“I’d like to, yeah.”

“Then that’s all you had to say. Of course you’ll fuck things up, Josh, and so will I. It’s not like I have any clue about how this works either.”

I can’t help but snort with laughter. “God, this could turn out to be a comedy of errors.”

“It could,” he agrees. Letting the washcloth drop to the floor, he threads his fingers through mine and gives me a hopeful smile. “Or we could figure things out together.”

There’s a tightening in my chest as his words take hold. We could figure things out together. We. There’s a _we_. We could do this _together_. “That sounds like it’s worth a shot,” I say.

“Good.” His smile is brilliant, and all I can think is that if karma exists I must have saved about a thousand people in a past life to earn this moment right here.

“Stay tonight?”

Sam hesitates. “I have work at 8:00 tomorrow morning, same as you.”

“So I’ll set the alarm for 5:30, we can fool around in the shower, and you’ll be out of here by 6:30, giving you plenty of time to go back to your place and get into a suit.”

“Pretty arrogant of you to assume I’ll want to fool around in the shower.”

I pounce, pinning him to the mattress and kissing him hard. The moment he whimpers and eagerly responds, I pull back and smirk. “Hey, if you want me to set the alarm for 6:30 and make sure we don’t have time to--”

“No, no, 5:30 will be perfect,” he says quickly.

“That’s what I thought.” I kiss him again for good measure, softer than before, and settle down with Sam’s arm flung across my chest. It feels right. “Listen, Sam, I’m not gonna push you to tell anyone about this until you’re ready.”

He lifts his head and stares at me, clearly moved. “Josh, I--”

“I’m serious. If you need time, we can figure that out.”

“Okay. I need to think about it.”

“That’s fine.” It really is. It’s obvious that Sam wears his heart on his sleeve, and I don’t think he’s capable of keeping me as a dirty little secret. There’s a difference between fear and shame, and I’m certain his being in the closet has more to do with the former.

“I’ll think about it,” he says again. “But I think maybe now I should sleep.”

“Yeah. Sleep does sound good.” I slide an arm over his waist, pulling him closer.

I think I still have that goofy-ass grin on my face as I fall asleep. Amazingly, I didn’t fuck it up after all.


	4. July 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jesus fucking Christ, Sam! Call me when you’re ready to grow up!”

SAM POV

One month. Neither of us uses the word ‘anniversary’ tonight or even mentions the date’s significance, but that doesn’t matter. Up until now we’ve spent our time together holed up in Josh’s apartment -- mine isn’t an option given that I have a roommate who’s almost always home -- which has certainly been enjoyable given all the sex it’s led to. Tonight, however, I want something different. Josh is surprised when I ask him if we can go out to dinner, but he immediately acquiesces and takes me to his favorite Chinese place. It isn’t fancy and it doesn’t need to be. We share dumplings and General Tso’s chicken and fortune cookies, and my face lights up when his hand grazes my knee under the table. After dinner we stop for coffee and talk about tax policy. It’s our first real date. It’s perfect.

Josh has an early morning meeting, so he opts to walk me home instead of inviting me back to his place. He’s never actually been to my apartment, and there’s an awkward moment when we stop outside the building. For a second I think he might kiss me goodnight, but he merely nudges my shoulder with his and smiles. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” My voice is strangled. I want so much more than casual contact. I want him to kiss me and I don’t care who might see. Josh has been amazingly patient, never once pushing me to tell my parents or friends about us, and now I feel a wave of nausea as he walks away. Anyone who’s been watching us would think we’re merely good friends. I’ve never felt so ashamed in my life.

All I want is to crawl under the covers and hide in bed, so naturally I’m greeted the second I walk in the door by my roommate. To be fair, Paul is a pretty good guy; he’s another intern, an American history major at Amherst who plays lacrosse and makes a lot of bad jokes. I try to wave him off and head straight for my room, but he shouts after me, “were you out with your mystery woman again?” and something breaks inside me.

For the past month it’s been a recurring joke for Paul that I’m obviously getting laid even though I won’t talk about it. I’ve only spent two nights at Josh’s, including our first time together -- usually I head home after sex -- but Paul is not stupid. Every time he asks about it, I shrug it off. He’s developed elaborate, joking reasons why I won’t talk about my ‘girlfriend’ ranging from his theory she’s in the C.I.A. to his theory that she’s married. I play along because I’ve convinced myself it’s safer than telling him the truth, but after watching Josh walk away tonight I cannot fucking take it any longer.

“I don’t have a mystery woman,” I snap.

“Of course you do!” Paul crows.

“No, I don’t!”

“Come on, Seaborn. You’ve been getting laid on the regular for a few weeks now. I can tell!”

“It’s not a woman!” The words hang in the air. “His name is Josh.”

Paul honestly looks like the slightest touch of my pinky would knock him over. His mouth opens, then clicks shut. I don’t make it easy for him, returning his stare and practically daring him to say something stupid. Finally he says, “that’s why you wouldn’t talk about it?”

“Yes.”

He seems to regain his equilibrium. “Doesn’t make a difference to me.”

“It doesn’t?”

“One of my friends at Amherst is gay. So was my high school English teacher. I’m surprised, but I don’t give much of a shit.” He shrugs. “Sorry if I ever gave you reason to think otherwise.”

“No, you didn’t. It’s just that this is all new to me. Not being gay,” I clarify, “but Josh is the first guy I’ve dated.”

“You wanna tell me about him?” Paul gives me an encouraging smile, and I can’t help but smile back.

“His name is Josh Lyman and he works for Congressman Brennan.”

“Interning?”

“No, he’s the Congressman’s Floor Manager,” I say with a note of pride.

“Whoa, older man!”

I laugh and flop down on the couch, all the earlier tension seeping out of me. “He’ll be 25 in October. He graduated from Yale Law in May and he was a Fulbright Scholar.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I know,” I laugh.

“Aim high and why settle for less, huh?”

“You’d like him.”

“I probably would. Is he in the closet?”

“No, no. He came out a long time ago.” I swallow hard. “I think I’m ready for that, too. Not sure how my parents will handle it, but…”

“I guess you won’t know until you tell them,” Paul remarks with a sympathetic smile. “In the meantime, feel free introduce me to your mystery _man_.”

“Yeah,” I laugh. “I’ll introduce you.”

*****

The next day Paul and I are grabbing lunch in the mess and I’ve carefully timed it with Josh’s schedule. Sure enough, I spot him at the checkout counter with a paper bag tucked under his arm, in a hurry as always. “That’s him,” I tell Paul in a low voice. I grin at Paul’s approving nod and wave at Josh, calling out his name.

Josh does a double take when he sees me and checks his watch before coming over to our table. “How you doin’, Sam?”

“I’m okay. Uh, this is my roommate, Paul. Paul, this is Josh.”

“Nice to meet you,” Paul says genuinely.

Josh nods distractedly, looking everywhere other than my face. “Yeah, good to meet you. Listen, I gotta get back to this meeting.”

“O-okay.” It’s obvious he’s giving me the brush-off. “Hey, maybe we could grab dinner tonight?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. I have a late meeting tonight so I’ll have to see what time...” He trails off and clears his throat. “Sorry Sam, I really gotta go.” Josh gives me the most insincere smile imaginable and bolts from the room.

“So that was Josh,” I say weakly.

Paul nods sympathetically. “Yeah.”

“He’s...busy.” God, could I sound any lamer?

“Yeah.”

“I think I’m done eating.” I stand up and toss my half-eaten tuna sandwich in the garbage can, all but sprinting back to my office and leaving Paul behind.

Josh warned me he was bad at this but I fell for him anyway. There’s a reason I’m the one who made the first move, and why I was the one who suggested dinner out in public last night. No wonder he’s not pushing me to come out to people. He likes keeping me a secret. Why the hell am I even surprised? He’s a Floor Manager, a guy with two degrees and a Fulbright Scholarship whose friends are all college graduates; even if Josh was good at relationships, he wouldn’t spend his time actually dating an intern who isn’t even old enough to buy beer. I’m a cheap fling. I’m the guy you pretend not to know when you run into him in public.

I am so fucking stupid.

*****

If more proof is needed that I am stupid, it can be found when I go to Josh’s building after work and stand outside, waiting for him to get home. He told me he had a late meeting so I’m prepared to wait for a long while, but it’s only a little after 6:00 when I see him coming down the street -- with his friend Matt. So much for a late meeting. I feel even stupider and smaller than I did earlier today in the mess, and I rack my brain trying to figure out how to escape without being detected.

“Sam?”

Too late. “Uh, hi.”

Josh is staring at me, brow furrowed. “What are you doing here?”

Because my mouth is frequently detached from my brain, I point at Matt and blurt out, “what is _he_ doing here?”

Matt, to my horror, starts laughing. He claps Josh on the shoulder and says, “have a good night, buddy.”

“Thanks,” Josh says caustically, watching out of the corner of his eye as Matt beats a hasty retreat. He storms into the building and sprints to the second floor with me right behind him, unlocking the door to his apartment and almost letting it slam shut on me as I duck in after him.

“Hey!”

“Hey, what?” he snaps.

“You’re pissed at _me_?!” I yelp in disbelief.

“Well, you basically accused me of cheating on you! I’m not feeling too cheerful right now!”

“You told me you had a meeting!”

“My meeting got canceled and I was in a bad mood, so Matt walked me home and we were going to watch the Orioles game together, and I was going to call you to see if you wanted to join us! You really thought he was coming over so I could fuck him? Putting aside the fact that Matt’s in a relationship, there’s the fact that I have a boyfriend of my own and I wouldn’t do that to you!”

“Is that what I am? Your boyfriend?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You didn’t even want to act like you knew me earlier today when I introduced you to--”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sam!” he explodes. “Call me when you’re ready to grow up!”

I suck in a sharp breath and stand rooted to the ground. After an interminable moment of silence, Josh takes a step towards me and flinches as I shake my head at him. “Don’t,” I tell him in a quavering voice. God, I even sound like a pathetic kid.

“I didn’t mean--”

“Yeah, you did.”

Josh runs a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture I’ve always found endearing until now. Now I just want to smack him. Hard. “Sam, you gotta understand. I know you need time until you’re ready to come out but you can’t expect me to act all friendly when you introduce me to someone and I have to pretend I’m just some random guy you know!”

“Paul knows you’re my boyfriend! I told him last night!”

“And how the fuck was I supposed to know that?”

Oh.

I really am so fucking stupid. But not for the reasons I thought.

“So you thought…” I trail off and sit down on the couch, unable to look Josh in the eye.

“I’d never out you, Sam. No matter how frustrated I get, I wouldn’t do that. So yeah, I pretended I barely knew you because if I stayed and talked to you I was convinced I’d somehow give away the fact that I...that we…” He gestures helplessly and sits down next to me. “If I’d known you told this guy about us I wouldn’t have acted like that. I swear.”

“I thought maybe you liked that it was a secret.”

“Why would you think that?”

I twist my hands together and bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to cry. God, I really do feel like a child. “Because I’m an intern and you have this important job. Because I’m a stupid kid who needs to grow up.”

Josh sighs and slides an arm around me. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

“Yes, I was! You really came out to your roommate?”

“Yeah, last night after I got home. He was teasing me about my ‘mystery woman’ and I kind of lost it.”

“And then you introduced him to me.”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds pretty fucking grown up to me.” One of those killer lopsided grins crosses his face and my heart leaps into my throat. “So you’re an intern and I’m a Floor Manager. You think I give a shit about that?”

“No.” I honestly don’t. It’s amazing the places my brain will take me when I’m worked up, because now that the fog in my mind has cleared I know how absurd it was to think Josh cares about the difference in our job titles.

“Do you know how hard it was last night to keep my hands off you when we were at dinner? Do you know how much I wanted to kiss you goodnight when I left you standing in front of your apartment building?”

“I do know,” I say, my voice choking with emotion. “I felt the same way.”

“C’mere,” he murmurs. His lips are on mine and I melt against him, my hands sliding over his broad back and holding on for dear life.

When the kiss ends I look into his eyes and say what I’ve wanted to say since the first time I kissed him. “I don’t want to hide anymore.”

“Yeah?”

“I want to be with you and I can’t do it like this anymore. It’s not fair to you. It’s not fair to either of us.”

“Sam…” The hope reflected on his face is nothing short of beautiful, and I kick myself for ever questioning what I mean to him. He’s going to say it. He’s really going to say it. “I love you,” he whispers.

I frame his face with my hands and kiss him until we’re both gasping for breath. Josh loves me. He loves me and it makes me feel invincible. I can do anything. I can come out. “I love you, too. I’m sorry, I was so stupid.”

“You were,” he laughs, “but it’s okay. I love you even when you’re being stupid.” He kisses just under my earlobe and I shiver. “You hungry?”

“For food?”

“Yes, for food.” He swats my hand away as I reach for his fly. “Seriously, I’m starving. Wanna order a pizza?”

“We could go out for pizza instead,” I suggest.

Josh squeezes my hands and smiles. “Yeah, we could.”

“Come on.” I bounce to my feet and pull him up. “My treat.”

“Pizza and soda? You’re really breaking the bank there.”

“Oh, be quiet,” I grumble, unable to hide my smile when he slips his hand in mind and leads me out the door. I look down at our joined hands as we walk out of the building and my smile gets even wider.

“This okay?” he asks softly.

I nod and bump his hip with mine. “I think this is the most okay I’ve ever been.”


	5. July 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your parents can go fuck themselves if they give up on you.”

JOSH POV

“Mom, listen to me!”

Sam’s anguished voice carries to the kitchen, where I’m failing to get any work done reviewing this proposed rider because my beautiful, amazing boyfriend is having his heart stomped on by his mother.

“Mom, come on! I’m not choosing a lifestyle, this is who I am! And even if I could change it I wouldn’t want to. I have a boyfriend and I love him! I wouldn’t choose to date any girl instead of Josh, okay? Yes, that’s his name. Josh Lyman. He’s a staffer in another Congressman’s office, a Floor Manager.” Pause. “He’s 24.” Another pause. “It’s not like that! He’s not even five years older than me! I’m not being taken advantage of!”

Goddamnit I want so badly to storm in there and grab the phone and yell at this woman for treating Sam like this. I clench my fists and read this stupid rider for the fifth time while I try to block out my rage. How dare she?

“I’m still the same person,” Sam’s saying in a pleading voice. “Fine, I’ll call you next week. No, don’t call me. Don’t, Mom! I’m hanging up now.”

I hear the receiver being slammed down, followed by Sam’s footsteps as he retreats to my bedroom. I go after him, pain blossoming in my chest as I see him curled up in a ball on the bed, staring into space. “Hey,” I say in the gentlest voice I can manage.

“I told her I was gay and she said, ‘no, you aren’t. You can’t be. I know my own son.’ She said she needs time to deal with this.” The words are spoken in monotone. There’s no emotion in his eyes. “She didn’t want to even hear about _you_. She thinks you’re taking advantage of me.”

“Yeah, I heard that part.”

“I knew she’d be shocked, but I never thought she’d react like this.”

“Your dad wasn’t there?”

“Business trip. He’ll be home tomorrow.” Sam draws his hand across his face and blinks a few times. “What if my mom doesn’t get past this, even if I give her time? What if my dad feels the same way?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. Lying to spare his feelings or offering cheap platitudes wouldn’t go over very well; Sam craves brutal honesty as much as I do, and it’s served us pretty well so far. That said, part of me wishes I could tell him everything will be fine and get him to believe it. Four nights ago we had our first fight which ended with Sam saying he was ready to come out and both of us declaring our love; the night after that he unofficially moved in, bringing most of his clothes and a bunch of other personal effects to my place. We’ve gone out in public as a couple -- out to dinner, out to the movies, out for a lazy Saturday afternoon in the park -- without the world collapsing. I’ve woken up with Sam half-naked and pressed against me for the past three mornings and it’s been absolute bliss. If either of us was waiting for the other shoe to drop, well, it just did. I don’t know what to say except a simple, “I love you.”

Sam reaches for me, burrowing into the embrace I offer without hesitation. “I love you, too. I’m happy and so much of it is because of you. I don’t understand why she can’t accept that. Why couldn’t she be like your parents?”

“Because my parents are just happy I’m alive most of the time. If I ran off and married a komodo dragon they’d probably be okay.”

“What are you talking about?”

If Sam ever needs proof of how much I love him, he can cite what I’m about to tell him. I don’t talk to anyone about this except my mom and dad, and that only happens maybe once a year. I stand up and go over to my bookshelf, grabbing a well-worn copy of _The Velveteen Rabbit_ and taking it back the bed with me. Opening it to the back page, I show him a photograph securely taped to the paper. “That’s me and Joanie. This was my third birthday party, so she was nine.”

Sam traces the edges of the picture with his fingertips, looking at the image of a little boy with smears of cake frosting in his hair and a tall, skinny girl with flyaway curls and a pink gingham dress. “You had a sister?”

“She died when I was seven.”

“What happened?”

I take a few deep breaths and close the book, setting it aside. “My parents went out to dinner and Joanie got stuck babysitting me. I wouldn’t stop bugging her so she told me she’d make some popcorn and let me watch TV if I’d leave her alone. The, uh, the popcorn maker malfunctioned. There was a fire.”

“Josh…” Sam draws me against him and I resist my instinctive need to pull back from receiving comfort.

“Anyway, that’s why my parents are like that. Maybe they would be supportive even if Joanie was still here, but I’m all they’ve got.” I sigh. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

He kisses the top of my head. “It means a lot that you told me.”

“She would have liked you.” The words are out before I even think about them. But it’s true -- Joanie would _love_ Sam.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“And my parents are really gonna like you.”

“Maybe they can adopt me if my own parents give up on me.” He tries to smile but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Your parents can go fuck themselves if they give up on you.”

Sam’s eyes widen and then he bursts into hysterical laughter. “Oh my God, Josh, I think I really needed to hear that. They _can_ go fuck themselves.”

“Slowly and painfully,” I add.

“Josh,” he says in that tone of voice that I adore. It’s fondness mixed with admonition and every time he says my name like that I fall in love all over again. Given that I say stupid things on an almost hourly basis, he employs that weapon quite a bit.

“They can!” I yelp.

“It’ll be fine,” Sam says. “Even if...it’ll be fine. I doubt they’re going to disown me. My mom said she needs time, not that she never wants to speak to me again.”

I kiss him thoroughly, ruffling my fingers through his soft hair. “It’ll be fine, Sam.”

“When are your parents visiting?”

“In three weeks. My dad’s friend is having a fortieth birthday party that weekend so they’re gonna kill two birds with one stone -- come meet my boyfriend and go to Leo’s party.”

“Leo is your dad’s friend?”

“Leo McGarry.”

Sam’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Leo McGarry? Isn’t he--”

“Vice-Chairman of the DNC? Yes. Leo started out as a lawyer at my dad’s firm before he went into politics, and Dad was kind of his mentor. I’ve known him since I was twelve.” I almost laugh at the look of surprise on Sam’s face. “How do you think I got an interview for my job in the first place? I’m only 24 and I don’t hide the fact I like to suck cock. There was no way I was getting in the door without a little help.”

“You really don’t hide the fact that you like to suck cock,” Sam says with a smirk.

“Nope. And it’s hard to be blackballed from a job on the Hill if Leo volunteers to be one of your references. Hey, you should come to his birthday party with me. You should meet him. Never too early to network, right? When next summer rolls around he can help you get a much better gig than the internship you’ve got now.”

“I can’t network with the Vice-Chairman of the DNC!”

“Oh, stop. Leo will like you.”

“You think everybody will like me!”

“You’re impossible not to like, Sam.” I glance sidelong at him and smile. “You know how much I liked you when we first met?”

“How much?”

“So much that I staged a last-minute potluck dinner as an excuse to get you to come over here.”

Sam’s eyes widen and he breaks out an irrepressible grin. “You didn’t.”

“I absolutely did. And Matt still won’t let me live it down.”

“You got four of your friends to come over just so--”

“So I could get you here without freaking you out by coming on too strong? Pretty much.”

“That was some first-rate scheming,” Sam concedes. “I never suspected anything.”

“Excellent.”

There’s a pause, then Sam says, “you know the first time I saw you, in the Rotunda?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Josh, I honestly fell in love with you right then and there. I mean, I really think it was love at first sight. Even before I knew anything about you...” He trails off and blushes deeply. “Sounds stupid, huh?”

“No,” is all I can manage to say. I’m thunderstruck. I know Sam wouldn’t say that unless he absolutely meant it. “It’s not stupid.”

“That’s why I came up to you on the Mall that day,” he continues. “I just felt like I had to give it a shot, even if there was no chance in hell you would ever like me. I didn’t even think I was ready to be out, I’d never approached another guy before, but I had to try.”

“I can’t tell you it was love at first sight,” I say apologetically.

“I didn’t think it was, and that doesn’t bother me.”

“I did start falling in love with you when you kissed me.” The beaming smile on Sam’s face is nothing short of gorgeous. “I already knew I liked you, it wasn’t just about wanting to get you into bed.”

“That was a motivating factor, though.”

“Well, of course it was! Have you ever looked in a mirror?”

Sam laughs and ducks his head, trying to hide his blush. “It was your smile,” he tells me. “When I first saw you, it was your smile. The dimples, you know...I’m pretty fond of them. And your hair.”

“My _hair_? My hair is a mess.”

“Don’t care. I love it.” Sam runs his fingers through it to make his point.

“You’re a lunatic.” I plant a kiss on his mouth, shivering at the way he slides his hands over my chest. “I hope I don’t have to tell you how much I love you, since I already tell you about five times a day.”

“You don’t,” Sam says, kiss-swollen lips curling into a smile. “But I like hearing it anyway. Now kiss me again.”

Okay, so maybe it’s not a good idea to use sex to distract Sam from all of this drama, but I doubt I can be blamed for my inability to keep their hands off this guy when he slides into my lap and starts kissing me like there’s no tomorrow. When it’s all over Sam looks as thoroughly debauched as I feel, and we’re both smirking idiotically.

“Can you get me something to clean up with?” he sighs. “I kinda can’t move.”

“Uh-huh.” I make no move to get up.

“Josh, come on. I’m exhausted and I’m a mess. Help me out here.”

“I need a second.”

“You need a second? I did all the work!” he reminds me.

“You’re young and resilient, remember?” I tease, parroting the phrase he used after I fucked him the very first time.

“Oh, like you’re old.” My boyfriend has an expert, devastating eye roll.

“For the record, I’m only getting up so you’ll stop bitching at me.” I stretch exaggeratedly and walk into the bathroom to fetch him a washcloth and dispose of the condom.

“Noted, Counselor.”

“Hah.” One of Sam’s jokes is that I’m not a real lawyer. If he calls me Counselor, he must be mocking me. I don’t know why I put up with this treatment.

“I’m all sticky,” he groans as he scrubs the damp cloth over his skin.

“Hey, you were the one who mounted me like I was a--”

“If you say bucking bronco, I’m out of here.”

“I wasn’t going to say that!” I laugh. “Actually, I don’t know what I was going to say. Other than to remind you that you started it and you’re clearly the one who can’t keep his hands to himself, so it takes a lot of nerve to complain about the mess that results from your shameless actions.”

Sam grins. “Shameless?”

“Yup, shameless. Brazen, even.”

It’s a lovely little moment, ruined when Sam’s grin disappears as quickly as it came and he says, “I wonder if my mom will ever accept this.”

I almost get whiplash from the change in subjects. “Accept _this_?” I venture, gesturing to the rumpled sheets and our naked bodies. “Because I gotta say, giving her the details may not be the best way to get me in her good graces.”

He glares at me, but there’s no real heat behind it. “No, not the details, you idiot.”

“Just checking.” I attempt a smile. “Sam, she said she needed time. You said you didn’t think she’d do anything like stop talking to you altogether.”

“It hurts.” God, it hurts _me_ to hear the pain in his voice. I can only imagine how much this is hurting him.

“I know.”

“You don’t know. Your parents were fine with everything.”

“I’m lucky, I know that. But you’re not going to be alone, no matter what happens.”

“Promise?” Sam looks at me with anguish and hope warring in his eyes, and I realize yet again I am completely and utterly fucked. I’d do anything for him, I really would.

“I promise.”


	6. August 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re an idiot, Josh, but you’re my idiot.”

SAM POV

“Sam, stop fidgeting.”

“I am not fidgeting!” Really, I’m not. I’m simply adjusting my tie, and straightening my jacket cuffs, and making sure my hair is completely in place.

“You’re fidgeting so much that _I’m_ going to start fidgeting to deal with all this nervous energy you’re bombarding me with.” Josh’s voice is sharp but it’s undercut by the affection I can see in his eyes. “Relax. They’re going to love you.”

“What if they don’t?”

“They will. I know my parents and I know you. This will be fine.” He reaches across the backseat of the cab to give my knee a quick squeeze.

I know I’m driving him nuts with this, but I can’t help it. Even under the best of circumstances I would be desperate to have my boyfriend’s parents like me, and these are not the best of circumstances. In the three weeks since I came out to my mom, I’ve spoken with her twice, and neither conversation featured any discussion about my sexuality or my relationship with Josh. My father has called me once after my mother beat me to the punch and outed me to him. That call was excruciatingly awkward as he told me in stilted sentences that my tuition for the fall semester was paid -- his way of saying that I wasn’t being cut off -- and then we chatted about the weather and the new movies we’d seen before hanging up. How much time do you need to realize your child is happy and being true to himself, and nothing else should matter? I can’t go two hours without thinking about the fact that my parents don’t want to know the real me.

The cab arrives at the restaurant and I try to will my heartbeat to lower to a normal rate. Josh is certain this will be okay. Josh has never lied to me. This will be okay. His hand brushes my back as the hostess guides us to a table in the back where the Lymans are already waiting. Even if Josh hadn’t pointed them out as we approached I’d have recognized them in a second -- Noah Lyman is tall and broad with the same unruly hair as Josh, and Clara Lyman’s dimples and brown eyes are a match to her son’s. The apprehension that’s been building in me all day dissipates in a flash as Noah reaches past Josh and shakes my hand with a wide, genuine smile.

“Sam, it’s so good to meet you,” he says.

The moment he releases my hand, Clara stops hugging Josh and puts her arms around me. “Finally, I meet the boy who’s domesticated my son.”

“Mom, come on!” Josh whines. “I’m not, like, some chihuahua who needed to be housebroken.”

“Of course not,” Noah says. “That comparison would insult the chihuahua.” He winks at me and I don’t hide my snicker.

Josh and I take our seats and immediately the conversation begins to flow free and easy, as his parents refrain from peppering me with a million questions like I worried they would. It isn’t until our entrees arrive that I realize neither of Josh’s parents has asked me about my family. My smile hardens as I think back over the past thirty minutes of conversation and come up with zero instances of the Lymans making even a casual inquiry into where my parents live or what they do or if I have any siblings. I find it impossible to believe that it’s an accidental oversight on their part; no, Josh must have told them to beg off the subject altogether and chose not to let me in that decision. He thinks I can’t deal with this.

“Sam?”

“Hmm?” I look up from my dinner at the sound of Noah Lyman’s voice.

“I was asking if you liked baseball.”

“I tolerate it,” I say, forcing some cheer into my voice. “Josh has tried to teach me the finer points of the game, but I’m afraid I’ll always prefer football and basketball.”

“I’ll make a Mets fan out of you yet,” Josh teases me.

“Sure you will,” I jab back.

He laughs, oblivious to the change in my mood. I stab at my dinner with a fork and try to quell my rising anger. I must do a good job, because the rest of the meal passes without any drama. The conversation turns to tomorrow night’s birthday party for Leo McGarry, and I find it impossible to resist Noah’s entreaty that I accompany Josh to the event. After we linger over dessert and coffee Noah picks up the check and says his goodbyes at the table, but Clara insists on accompanying us out to the taxi stand. She fusses over Josh’s crooked tie and smooths his hair, and he favors her with an indulgent smile.

“Take note, Sam -- this is the part of the evening where she tells me everything I’m doing wrong with my life before sending me on my way,” he laughs, not unkindly.

“Joshua,” she sighs, “what am I going to do with you?” She leans up and kisses his cheek. “And you need to learn how to cook. Restaurants are nice, but you owe me a home-cooked meal after all the dinners I’ve made for you in the past quarter of a century.”

“I’ll work on it. Maybe Sam can teach me.”

“Like he doesn’t have enough to put up with already,” Clara teases.

***********************************************************************************************************************

“Now I get to say I told you so,” Josh crows the moment we’re in the apartment.

“Is that so?”

“They loved you, Sam. Loved you! Hell, my dad practically begged you to come to the party tomorrow night because I think he wants to show you off to Leo and Jenny -- you know, ‘look at the wonderful guy Josh somehow managed to snag.’”

“Yeah.” I take off my tie and jacket, tossing them haphazardly over the back of the couch. That’s the first clue Josh has that something is wrong. He always makes fun of my compulsive neatness; clothes are never left strewn around if I can help it. For good measure I kick off my shoes and leave them in the middle of the living room before stalking into the bedroom. So what if I feel like a three-year-old having a tantrum? I’m entitled to it.

“Uh, Sam?”

“What?”

“You kind of left your clothes everywhere.”

“Nothing gets by you, Josh.” My dress shirt and undershirt are balled up and tossed on top of the dresser.

“Help me out here.” He flashes me a nervous smile. “Is it a full moon or something?”

I press my lips together, trying to gather my composure. “Can I ask you something?”

“Technically, you just did.” Josh shuts up as he sees the stony expression on my face. “Yeah, shoot. Ask me anything.”

“Did you tell your parents they shouldn’t bring up my family at dinner tonight?”

Josh clears his throat and looks down at the floor. “Yes, I did.”

“What, you told them I wouldn’t be able to handle it?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Sam. I didn’t want you to have to talk about it with them. You were nervous enough about tonight and I thought it was best to make sure they avoided bringing up something that’s been tearing you apart for the past several weeks.”

“Because you don’t think I can handle it,” I say again.

“You’ve been handling it! You’ve been amazingly tough, but I can see how much it hurts you. What’s wrong with wanting to ensure you don’t get hurt any more than you already are?”

“That wasn’t your call! Your parents are great, but I didn’t need them to know about what’s going on with my mom and dad. I don’t need their pity--”

“It’s not pity!”

“Yes, it is! ‘Poor Sam, his parents can’t accept that he’s queer. Let’s make sure we treat him with kid gloves.’ Did you even think that maybe you should have checked with me first? This is between me and my parents, it’s not something I need everyone to know about! What did you think was going to happen if your mother asked an innocuous question about what my parents do for a living? Did you think I would burst into tears at the dinner table? Really, Josh, what’s the scenario you were trying to avoid?”

Josh slumps against the wall and stares at me blankly. He has such amazingly expressive eyes, and I can see in an instant that my words have penetrated the defensive shield he always thrusts up during arguments. “I guess I fucked up.”

“Yes, you did,” I say, my voice tight and unyielding. “And I am not okay with you trying to protect me from reality at every turn, or betraying my confidence to your parents or anyone else.”

“It _was_ just to my parents. I didn’t tell anyone else!”

“You shouldn’t have even told them.”

He takes a halting step towards me. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. But come on, wouldn’t you have done the same thing in my position?”

“Yes,” I concede. “However, it still would have been wrong and you know that you’d have been pissed at me if our positions were reversed.”

“I’m sorry,” Josh says again. He takes another step and reaches for my shoulder, his palm warm against my bare skin. “It pisses me off that you’re being put through this, and I handled it badly.”

“Apology accepted.”

He tilts his head and frowns. “That’s it?”

I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in my throat. “What, you want me to start throwing things at you?”

“Nah, I’ll take a pass on that.” He gives me a hopeful smile. “As for protecting you from reality at every turn, as you put it--”

“It’s not the first time, Josh.”

“What are you talking about?” God knows I love the man, but his selective memory is infuriating.

“Remember what you said to me after you went off on that guy at the movies who called us faggots?”

“I don’t remember,” he lies.

“You said you should get points for defending my honor.”

“It was a joke!”

I shake my head. “See, this is the one place where I feel like the age difference is an issue.”

“You’re only four-and-a-half years younger than me, Sam.”

“Right, and there was that time you told me to call you when I grew up. Granted I was being stupid but it still hurt. Sometimes I think you see me as a kid.”

Josh’s hand leaves my shoulder so he can drag it over his face, and for good measure he punctuates the gesture with a weary sigh. “You’re reading way too much into this stuff.”

“Maybe I am. But can you recognize that’s how it comes across to me and understand why I get pissed off?”

He laughs harshly and flops down on the bed. “You know, for someone who’s never had a boyfriend before you seem to be scarily well-versed in the finer points of couples counseling.”

I sit down next to him, our thighs touching. “I’m sorry if this seems a little much. But I don’t want to fuck this up. This is too important to me to allow the little things to snowball into huge problems that we don’t talk about.”

There’s a lull, then he sits up and kisses me, just a light brush of his lips over mine. “Sometimes I do worry that...it’s just...you _are_ young, Sam. And you’re such a good person, you feel everything so deeply.”

“Like you’re not a good person?” I challenge him. “Like you don’t feel everything so deeply?”

He laughs under his breath. “Point well taken.”

“You’re an idiot, Josh, but you’re _my_ idiot.”

Josh pulls me into his arms. “Your idiot, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t think of a corresponding insulting term of endearment for you.”

“You’re creative, I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

“Nah.” He kisses my temple and sighs, his breath feathering my hair. “You’re my Sam. That’s good enough for me.”

I look into the eyes of this maddening, heart-stopping, exquisite man and swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. “That’s good enough for me, too.”

***********************************************************************************************************************

1:58 a.m. The red letters on the digital clock glare back at me and I shove my head under the pillow to try and kill my insomnia. Like that’ll work. Josh is asleep beside me, shifting every so often; he’s a restless sleeper, whereas he teases me that I could sleep through a herd of buffalo crashing through the apartment. Not tonight, though. Tonight is a lost cause.

I know what the problem is, and it’s not my earlier spat with Josh. Arguments aren’t uncommon for us, and that doesn’t bother me because I figure it’s better than pushing stuff down until it explodes. Besides which, Josh is a pretty combative guy -- which I love, at least most of the time -- and I’m not exactly shy about backing down when I have a point to make. So my insomnia can’t be tied to that. He _is_ an idiot but, like I said, he’s my idiot and I can deal with him fucking up. And he was right when he dared me to say that I wouldn’t have done the exact same thing if I had been in his shoes, so that helped me move past it.

No, the reason I can’t sleep is very simple: it hurt far more than I expected to have dinner with Josh’s parents. There was not one single moment this evening when either Noah or Clara Lyman looked at their son with anything other than love. They were genuinely interested in getting to know me. Noah insisted I go to that party for Leo McGarry with Josh, _as a couple_. There was not one iota of shame to be found in their words or demeanor; hell, they were _proud_ to have dinner with their son and his boyfriend. A rush of hot tears hits me as I try to picture what it’d be like if I brought Josh home to meet my parents. Would they yell at me? Yell at Josh? Would they pretend Josh is nothing more than a platonic acquaintance of mine?

I slip out of bed and walk to the living room, closing the bedroom door behind me. It’s now 2:17 a.m. 11:17 in California. Maybe they’re still awake. My dad usually retreats to his study at this time to watch the late news followed by Johnny Carson. A little vengeful part of me hopes they’re dead asleep and I’m going to wake them up. Why make this easy on them?

My fingers feel heavy as I punch in the familiar number. By the time the phone rings a third time, I’m having second thoughts. I can’t do this. It’s going to be awkward at best and devastating at worst, and 2:00 a.m. heart-to-heart conversations are rarely a good idea anyway.

“Hello?” My father’s voice cuts through my fears and I will myself to focus.

“H-hi.”

“Sam?”

“Hi, Dad.”

“Are you okay?”

Is he fucking kidding me? “Am I okay?” I repeat slowly.

“It’s the middle of the night in Washington. What happened? Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay!”

“What’s going on, Sam?”

“You won’t...you and Mom…” I dig my nails into my palm and screw my eyes closed, fighting back tears. “Why can’t you guys love me for who I am?”

The silence on the other end is deafening.

“Sam,” my father says finally, his voice unsteady, “it’s not like that.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“You must understand that it was a total shock to both of us.”

“What was a total shock?”

“You know what I’m referring to.”

“You can’t even say it,” I choke out. “Jesus, you can’t even say the word.”

Another suffocating silence descends, and I wonder if he’s going to hang up. “It was a shock when I found out you’re homosexual. I never suspected anything, son.”

“The fact that I never had a girlfriend didn’t clue you in?”

“You’re very shy sometimes. You’ve always focused more on school than your social life. And, to be honest, it never occurred to me that you would be that way.” He exhales, and I can almost see him adjusting his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose the way he always does when he’s backed into an uncomfortable conversation. “I want you to be happy, Sam.”

“I _am_ happy,” I tell him in an unwavering voice.

“Try to look at this from my perspective. This is going to make your life so much harder! If you live openly this way, there will be employers who refuse to hire you. You’ll have to deal with all of this stigma, and you won’t ever have children of your own.”

“You think I don’t know any of that?” I’m trying desperately to keep my voice low enough so it won’t wake Josh in the next room. “I’ve already had two friends stop talking to me. I’ve been called a faggot for having the audacity to hold hands with my boyfriend in public.”

“Sam--” His voice is laced with pain but I’m not letting him get the last word.

“Dad, how can you say you’re afraid of my life being harder because of this when you and Mom won’t support me? Don’t you think that my parents turning their backs on me will hurt so much more than anything else that could happen? I’ve spent almost a month thinking that you don’t want to know me anymore, that you won’t accept me for who I am. How do you think that makes me feel?”

Dad sighs and I hear him take a few deep breaths, as if to steady himself. “I’m sorry,” he says at last, the words so quiet that I wonder if I’ve misheard them. “I’m sorry.”

“I need you to be okay with this,” I plead. “I need to know you still love me.”

“Samuel Norman,” he begins, and I want to laugh at how easily he’s slipped into his lecturing voice that he favors when talking to me. That’s the first glimpse of normalcy I’ve had from either parent since I came out. “Nothing could ever make me stop loving you, and certainly not this. I handled myself badly, and I apologize. This is not the easiest thing for me to understand, and I take full responsibility because that is not your fault.”

I realize belatedly that I’m crying. “And Mom?”

“Your mother is going to need more time.”

“For what? Why can’t she say what you just said?”

“Son, please. She loves you, she just needs time.” He clears his throat. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Thank you.” I wipe a hand over my eyes, exhaustion crashing over me like a wave.

“You’re seeing someone? Your mother mentioned he’s older…”

I laugh somewhat hysterically. “He’s 24, not 40.”

“What’s his name?”

“Josh. He’s...he’s wonderful, Dad. We love each other. We’ve been dating for two months and I’ve kind of moved in with him. It’s not some little fling – I’ve met his parents, and we’re going to visit each other on weekends when I go back to school. You’d like him, you really would.”

“And you’re being safe with him?” The awkwardness carries through the phone line. “That’s part of the concern your mother and I have, with this virus that’s infecting so many homosexuals--”

“We use condoms,” I assure him. “We’re monogamous and he’s the first guy I ever, well, you know.” As much as I wanted to talk things through with my dad, I didn’t necessarily want the conversation to drift to this territory.

“Right. Well, then.” Dad shocks me by laughing. “I guess I miscalculated my focus when I gave you the birds and the bees talk back when you were ten.”

“Um, yeah. Just a little. If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t figure it out until I was eleven.”

That catches him by surprise. “You mean you knew for nine years and--”

“I didn’t know how to deal with it,” I confess. “I was afraid.”

“What changed?”

I smile into the darkness. “I met Josh.”

Dad chuckles a little. “Okay.”

“So _we’re_ okay?”

“Yes.” He hesitates. “I’m proud of you, son. I always have been, and this does nothing to change that. If anything, talking to you tonight makes me even more proud, knowing you have the courage to live your life honestly even if it isn’t something that will be easy. You’ve grown into a very fine young man, Sam.”

“Thank you.” The words are nearly strangled by emotion as I struggle to push them out. “I should get some sleep.”

“Go on. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Right, okay. Good night, Dad.” I’m nearly shaking from exhaustion, both physical and mental, and my steps are unsteady as I retreat to the bedroom. I settle back into bed and jump out my skin when Josh slides an arm across my waist and spoons me.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hi.”

“How’d it go?”

“How’d what go?”

“Sam, come on. I could hear you on the phone, you were upset, and it’s still a semi-reasonable hour of night in Laguna Beach.”

“It was tough,” I admit. “I had to push him.”

“But?”

“He said he still loves me. He said…” I breathe in deeply. “He said he’s proud of me.”

“And your mom?”

I shrug and slide my fingers over where his hand rests on my stomach. “He’s going to talk to her. I told him about you, that I’m in love with you.” I smile as I feel his lips press against the back of my neck. “I am, you know.”

“Good. I’d hate to think this is unrequited.”

“Never. Now shut up and let me get some beauty sleep.”

“Like you need it,” Josh says under his breath. I laugh and close my eyes, letting sleep steal over me at last.


	7. August 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What I’m saying here is that I think I should get a little credit for going ten weeks without fucking this up.

JOSH POV

I’m always in a hurry. I always have to walk fast, talk fast, to do everything at a superhuman pace; it only took me three years to graduate high school, and I’ve earned a Fulbright Scholarship and two Ivy League degrees before my 25th birthday. My philosophy is that there’s a big world out there and I’ll never get anything achieved unless I’m always keeping an eye on what’s next. Few things frustrate me more than when I have to sit still and force myself to slow down. Until this morning. This morning I am doing everything I can -- without success -- to make time stand still. This morning I am glancing at the alarm clock every so often and feeling my heart sink as I see the minutes tick by. I don’t want to jump out of bed and conquer the day, because I already know what it’s going to bring. Sam is leaving this morning. He’s piling his crap into the used BMW his parents bought him two years ago and driving back to Princeton, and we’re going to have to navigate this thing with 182 miles standing between us.

Go ahead, tell me it could be worse. He could be going to college in California, or doing a year at Oxford rather than being just a hop, skip, and a jump up the northeastern seaboard. Remind me that we both have cars and have already promised to spend at least one weekend a month visiting each other. Point out that we have telephones and are lucky enough that we can both pay for substantial phone bills for endless late-night calls. I know all of that, and it doesn’t make me feel any better. The bottom line is that he won’t be physically with me.

The thing is, I told Sam when we first slept together that I was bad at relationships and I honestly _was_ before this, but now I think I’m doing pretty well. We argue a lot, sure, but sometimes it’s almost a sport to argue with Sam and watch him get all passionate as he tries to make his point. (Not that I’d ever pick a fight solely to see him get worked up, but it’s a weird turn-on for me when he’s in full-blown righteous indignation mode. He’s going to make a hell of a politician one day.) So we argue and bitch at each other and work sharp edges into our banter, and none of it has ever reached the level where I say something so egregious that I push Sam to leave. I know, I can’t believe it either, but I love him and somehow that’s enough for my subconscious to know exactly how much of a jerk I can get away with being and never toe the line beyond that. I’ve seen what Sam looks like when he’s hurting -- I’ve almost been able to feel it -- and I’ve vowed never to be the one who makes him feel that way. I know that’s not realistic, that at some point I’ll say or do something that is irredeemably stupid, but what I’m saying here is that I think I should get a little credit for going ten weeks without fucking this up. This is me we’re talking about here, master of the fuck-and-run style who never cared to go beyond a second or third date with anyone -- and I’m using the term ‘date’ very loosely. But there was never a chance that it’d be that way for me with Sam, not since the day he came up to me on the Mall and everything in my life shifted. I never thought falling in love would be so natural, that I wouldn’t resist it kicking and screaming, but I never stood a chance when it came to falling for him. And now he’s leaving.

I know, I know. It’s not permanent and it’s not as if he’s going to Timbuktu. Hypothetically speaking, if I somehow was in a relationship with someone other than Sam, I’d feel that this would be okay. The problem is that my boyfriend is gorgeous, smart, kind, funny, passionate, and a million other wonderful things, and I can’t imagine I’m the only guy who’s going to recognize those qualities. While Princeton University is hardly Castro Street, Sam won’t be the only gay guy on campus and he’s decided he wants to volunteer with the Gay and Lesbian Students Association once the semester starts; now that he’s out, maybe some other guy will think it’s safe to make a move. Then what? I’m a pretty confident guy -- some would go so far as to call me arrogant, though I think that’s pushing it -- but I can’t help feeling afraid that Sam will find someone else. What if he gets to campus and realizes this was merely a brief, intense summer romance? What if--

“Josh, you’re thinking so hard I can practically hear it.”

Sam is lying on his stomach, face half-smushed into a pillow and half-turned to me. His eyes are barely open and there’s a hint of a smile gracing his beautiful lips.

“I didn’t know you were awake,” I say lamely.

“I am. What time is it?”

“A little bit before 8:00.”

“Hmm.” He stretches and rolls over, the hem of his tee-shirt hitching up his stomach enough to display a tantalizing glance of lightly tanned skin. “So I have three hours.”

“Yeah.” I scratch idly at a spot on my elbow and try to ignore the sudden pressure on my chest. Sam is leaving in three hours.

“Josh?”

“Hmm?” I can’t look at him. Last thing he needs is me getting all clingy and hysterical.

“This isn’t going to change anything.”

“Yes, it will!” So much for not getting clingy and hysterical.

“Why?”

“Because it will!”

“We’re going to call each other, we’ve already planned for your first visit three weeks from now. I love you and you love me, and my going back to college is not going to change that.” Ah, Sam in argument mode. I usually love you like this. Not so much right now.

“Sam, you’re going to be out. You’ve already told me how much you want to work with the campus GLSA.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“There are going to be other guys who, y’know, thought you were straight and they didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell with you before, and now they’ll know you’re queer and they’ll make a move--”

“And you think I’d cheat on you?” Anger flares in Sam’s eyes, bright and dangerous, and he pulls away from me in a flash.

“No! I don’t think that!” I really, really don’t.

“So what the fuck are you trying to say here?”

“That you’ll realize there are other guys who…” I flail for the right words, trying desperately not to fuck this up beyond repair. And to think that a few minutes ago I was clapping myself on the back for being so good at relationships. I push through the mindless fear that’s threatening to swallow me whole and decide I have to be completely honest with Sam, no matter how pathetic he may find it. “You’re going to find someone better. You’re going to find someone who doesn’t say stupid shit all the time, someone who...it doesn’t even matter what the specifics are, but you’re going to have every guy eating out of your hand and you’re going to decide that one of them is going to be better for you. I’m going to be _that_ guy -- the one you were with for the summer, the guy who introduced you to sex and helped you come out, but I’m not the guy who you want to be with for the long run.”

The words hang heavy in the air above us and I wait for Sam to react, to do anything -- slap me, storm out, laugh at me, agree with me. At last he gives me a shake of his head and a rueful smile. “You really are an idiot, Josh.”

“So you’ve told me on many occasions,” I say bitterly.

“Although I did like the part where you assume every gay man on the Princeton campus will try to sleep with me.”

“Sam, I’m pretty sure that every straight man would jump at the chance to sleep with you. Lesbians, too.”

“It takes a special kind of hubris to think you can predict my future,” he continues, ignoring my attempt at a wisecrack. “And given how spectacularly off-base your conclusions are, I’d avoid going into fortune telling if I were you.”

“Thanks for the tip. And if it’s in the future, how would you know if I’m off-base or not?”

He slides fully into my lap, looping his arms around my neck and nuzzling that spot under my ear he knows is especially sensitive. “Because I know that I love you, and nobody -- on that campus or anywhere else -- is going to take your place. And I don’t give a shit if that sounds like a Hallmark card, because it’s true. So quit preparing for your imminent martyrdom.”

I wrap him in a tight embrace. “So once again, I’m being an idiot?”

“Mm-hmm. But it’s okay.”

We sit there like that for a few minutes, his lips resting against the hollow of my throat and my fingers slipping under his shirt to trace circles on his back. Eventually, my inability to keep silent gets the better of me. “I really never thought you’d cheat on me. That wasn’t what I was trying to say.”

“It sounded like it.” He’s trying to keep the hurt out of his voice.

“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry.” I sigh. “I say that a lot, don’t I?”

“Yeah, you do.” Sam pulls back to look at me and gives me a tiny smile. “You know what, though? Even if I’d known ahead of time you’d say all these stupid things I still would have dated you. Josh, you _are_ the guy I want to be with for the long run. You think I opened up to you completely just so I can ditch you now that the summer’s over?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know how this works! You know I’ve never been with anyone like this--”

“And I haven’t either,” he reminds me. “I promised you when we started this that we’d figure things out together.”

“Doesn’t seem like I’m doing the best job,” I mutter.

“You’re doing fine. Better than fine.”

“So are you.”

Sam grins brilliantly. “I’m a quick study.”

“No kidding,” I laugh, thinking about all the other ways he’s proven himself to be a quick study this summer. Judging by the blush that spreads across his face I can tell he’s followed my train of thought. “Look, why don’t we shower and have some breakfast?”

“Shower together?” he asks hopefully.

“Hell yes. I’m making the most my time with you.”

***********************************************************************************************************************

“So.”

“So.”

“So…” Sam shifts from one foot to another and looks everywhere other than my face, car keys clenched tightly in his white-knuckled fist. I surprise both of us by laughing. “What’s so funny?” Suddenly his expression has moved from awkward and evasive to heartbroken, and I wrap him in my arms.

“It’s just that we’ve said everything imaginable to one another over the past few months and now we can’t say anything.”

“It’s not that I can’t, it’s that I don’t want to.” Sam’s voice is muffled as his head drops down onto my shoulder.

“It’s not goodbye. You made that abundantly clear earlier.” I take a step back and frame his face with my hands. “Thank God you won the housing lottery and have a single room. I don’t know how a roommate would handle the 48 hours of total debauchery I have planned for my first visit.” That gets a laugh from him.

“I’ll call you tonight after I get settled.”

“Yeah.”

“So.”

“Yeah.”

Sam smiles and leans in for a kiss. It’s soft and lingering and underpinned by a shared melancholy. It’s not goodbye, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. A car horn honks somewhere down the block and I snap back to reality. Out of the corner of my eye I can see an elderly lady staring at us unkindly, and I could not give any less of a shit. Nobody’s ruining this moment for us.

“I love you,” I tell him. “I love you and I’ll see you in three weeks.”

“Love you, too.”

Sam gets into the driver’s seat and puts the key into the ignition, giving me one last smile before he closes the door and pulls out into traffic. I watch the car for two blocks, until it makes a left turn and disappears from view. And that’s it. He’s off to Princeton and I won’t see him for three weeks. Sam was right, this isn’t goodbye -- so why does it hurt so much? How is it possible that so much of myself is wrapped up in a man I’ve loved for less than three months? It defies logic yet makes perfect sense. If I ever had any doubts that I was completely in love with Sam Seaborn they’ve long been obliterated, because standing here alone in front of my apartment building I have to remind myself to breathe.

It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. He loves me and this isn’t goodbye. I think back to my earlier paranoia about Sam changing boyfriends along with the change in seasons and shake my head at my stupidity. Sam’s heart is always writ large on his face and I can’t believe I thought he was going to walk away from me. I focus on the look he gave me just before he drove away and the ache in my chest lifts as I think about what was left unsaid in his gaze, knowing it mirrored my own feelings:

The summer is over, but we’re just getting started.


	8. August-October 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roses are red  
> Violets are blue  
> So are my balls  
> Because I’m miles from you

Sunday, August 26, 1984

Dear Josh,

I know I can call you anytime, but indulge me here. You know I like to write so I figured I’d see if I could jump-start an epistolary chain with you – though I suppose it’ll be less of a chain than a loop, letters from me to you and hopefully letters from you to me. To make this a little more interesting, I’m going to set ground rules that say any response you have to anything I mention in a letter has to be put in writing. That means if I ask you what you had for dinner tonight, you have to write your answer and can’t cheat by telling me over the phone.

Not much to include in this letter, since I did speak to you an hour ago and I only got to my dorm three hours ago. It’s my first year with a single room and it does make all the difference. I can spread all of my stuff out wherever I want, I can stay up late studying in the comfort of my own space, and -- best of all -- we’ll get the room all to ourselves whenever you visit.

Three weeks to go. Counting down the days. I love you.

Sam

***********************************************************************************************************************

Friday, August 31, 1984

Sam,

I had to think about it for a few minutes, but the answer to your question about my dinner on Saturday is pizza. I had pizza for dinner. Unless you were asking what I had for dinner on the night I received your letter, not the night the letter was dated, in which case the answer is also pizza. I live a very simple life.

As if I didn’t already know you were anal, you set ground rules for our love letters? You always say I’m an idiot but I’m _your_ idiot, so I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re a nerd but you’re _my_ nerd. (By the way, when I say you’re anal I’m honestly referring to the out-of-bed stuff, but let’s not kid ourselves here. Hard not to think of ‘Sam’ and ‘anal’ and not have a few X-rated images come to mind.) That said I do like the idea of the letters. I’m not that good with words but I’ll give it a shot.

It’s Labor Day weekend and I’m currently on the train up to Connecticut to see my parents for a few days, which you already knew because I told you about my plans, and by the time you get this letter I imagine I’ll have recapped my entire stay in Westport for you over the phone. I’ll give them your best. I had lunch with Leo yesterday and he asked if we’re still together. I think I startled him with the rapidity and vehemence of my affirmative response. Then he laughed -- a lot. Whatever, I couldn’t be bothered to be embarrassed. I was too busy grinning like an idiot at the knowledge you’re my boyfriend. My nerdy boyfriend. My Sam.

Love you.

Josh

***********************************************************************************************************************

Wednesday, September 5, 1984

Josh,

You’re better with words than you give yourself credit for, because your letter left a huge smile on my face. I don’t need flowery poetry. Just need you.

Sorry this is quick -- it’s a full course load today and I wanted to be sure I jotted something down to send to you before my day spins out of control.

Sam

***********************************************************************************************************************

Wednesday, September 12, 1984

Sam,

I’m a little hungover. I went out with Matt and a few other staffers last night including this one diehard neocon Reaganite who was yelling about the virtues of trickle-down economics, so I think I have an excellent excuse for drinking my ass off. Matt says hi. He also says you should take classes taught by this one guy in the Princeton Poli Sci department named Joseph Schuster, that he’s excellent at Constitutional analysis. I’ve never heard of the guy -- maybe you have? Maybe you’ve already taken a class with him. Maybe Matt should tell you this directly.

Anyway, back to the hangover. I’m not proud to say I threw up everywhere in the cab on the way home and had to tip the driver thirty bucks to compensate for making a mess in his backseat, but that’s what happened. See what you’re missing by being at Princeton?

Glad you’re not expecting flowery poetry. I guess I could give that a shot if you ever change your mind. Let me see what I’ve got:

_Roses are red_  
Violets are blue  
So are my balls  
Because I’m miles from you 

On second thought, maybe not.

Josh

***********************************************************************************************************************

Tuesday, September 18, 1984

Josh,

Tell Matt I know exactly who Dr. Schuster is because I had to sit through one of his seminars last year. His political views dovetail nicely with that neocon Reaganite you went drinking with so I am avoiding his courses like the plague. Honestly, I don’t understand how Matt is a Republican. Explain that to me.

I’ve been starting to think seriously about law school because I feel like that’s what I should be doing, but every time I entertain the thought it leaves me cold. I loved my internship even though I couldn’t stand that buffoon McHenry, and I love hearing about all the things you do in your job. There’s no law -- pardon the pun -- that says I have to go directly from my B.A. to my J.D. Maybe I could try getting a gig in Washington for a year or two before taking that step. I guess next summer could be a litmus test for me; if I still love politics after two summers of grunt work, I should take that as a sign. And if I don’t, then I can go to law school right after graduating.

I spoke to my mom last night. It didn’t go very well, though I finally got her to sit still and listen so I could tell her about you. She seemed impressed by your two Ivy League degrees and the Fulbright Scholarship. I didn’t mention to her that you’re not a real lawyer.

Oh, and I’m still blushing from all the things you whispered in my ear this weekend. You have the filthiest mouth, Joshua. I love it.

Love,

Sam

P.S. You really cannot hold your liquor for shit, Josh. And don’t ever try writing poetry again.

***********************************************************************************************************************

Friday, September 28, 1984

Sam,

First of all, I absolutely can hold my liquor. I should sue you for libel for putting that falsehood down on paper. And I know the legal definition of libel because I absolutely, positively am a real lawyer.

You have sullied my good name. Prepare to face the consequences.

Josh

P.S. Sorry it took me a week to write. Crazy shit down here with Brennan angling for that open seat on Ways and Means. He’s had me throwing sharp elbows for him so he doesn’t have to do the dirty work while he courts votes, so I’ve probably pissed off half the people I’ve dealt with this week.  
P.P.S. You’ll get into the best law schools in the country no matter what. You don’t have to worry about the timing of it yet. This shit usually works itself out.  
P.P.P.S. Let’s not go there with Matt. I’ve thought about asking him, but you know how complicated this can be and he’s not a self-loathing closet case. Best to let it lie.  
P.P.P.P.S. You have quite the filthy mouth yourself, Samuel.

***********************************************************************************************************************

Thursday, October 4, 1984

Josh,

It’s been a very momentous few days for me.

I’m going to tell you this when I get you on the phone, but since you’re still at work I’ll put it down on paper first: your boyfriend is the new recording secretary of the Princeton Gilbert & Sullivan Society. I am seriously excited about this!

But that’s not the big news.

The big news is that I was picked to spearhead the GLSA’s next initiative. The head of the GLSA liked my idea that we petition the American History department to include the Stonewall Riots in the freshman course they offer called “Youth and Social Change in America: 1968-1972.” Next thing I knew, he was asking that I put together a written proposal to present to the chair of the American History department. I have two weeks to work on this so I’m going to be researching everything I can find on Stonewall and then extrapolating it to the larger social unrest to demonstrate why it’s a vital piece of history for our student body to learn about.

Josh, you have to know that so much of why I’m doing this is because of you. Maybe I would have eventually come out, but it would have taken _years_ for me to reach that point were it not for you. Don’t try to deny it. If I hadn’t met you, if I hadn’t fallen completely in love with you, I would still be living a lie. Once I thought that I had any kind of shot at dating you, I knew with absolute certainty that I had to take a chance and be honest with everyone, including myself. There are times when I’m still scared by all the prejudice and outright hatred that get thrown our way. There are times when I admit that it would be easier if I hadn’t been born this way. But I’d never change it even if I could.

Being who I am means I get to be with you, and that means everything to me.

Sam

P.S. You pissed off half the people you dealt with last week? I find that hard to believe. The real percentage must be much higher.

***********************************************************************************************************************

Tuesday, October 9, 1984

Sam,

So this is the part where I confess that I’ve saved all the letters you’ve sent me. I have them in a neat little bundle in an interoffice envelope I pilfered from the supply cabinet at work. I mention this because the last letter you sent me was one that I would have kept even if I weren’t already hoarding our correspondence like Smaug hoards treasure. (Gay nerds unite!)

Seriously, Sam – I love you to the end of the earth and back. I am enormously lucky to call you my boyfriend. I could not be more proud – and I’m not referring to your new position as the recording secretary of the Princeton Gilbert & Sullivan Society, though that could be a turn-on if I’ve consumed enough alcohol. You had better send me a copy of your proposal to the American History department. If you give them one of your patented Sam Seaborn, Future Esquire arguments they’ll be dead in the water in the face of your logic, intellect, and dead-sexy righteous fury.

You’re going to change the world one day. And I want to be there when you do it.

Josh

***********************************************************************************************************************

Monday, October 15, 1984

Josh,

And you say you’re not good with words...

Sam

P.S. I’ve saved all of your letters, too.  
P.P.S. We’ll change the world _together_.


	9. November 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You’re going to get mocked and roughed up and spit on, and you’re going to come out victorious on the other end no matter how long it takes and no matter what you’re fighting for, because you are smarter and better than any asshole who’s going to try and stop you. Write that down and then check back with me in fifty years, and then you’ll have to listen to me say I told you so, because I know when I’m right, and I’m right about this.”

JOSH POV

Sam has no idea I’m here. He’s onstage with the debate team, kicking absolute ass as they spar with Harvard’s team, unaware I’m perched in the second-to-last row in the auditorium watching him hold forth on the notion that the Constitution does not have an explicit right to privacy woven into the text. I know for a fact he doesn’t believe this, but he’s making his point with such wit and intelligence and energy that it’s hard not to fall for the argument.

This Seaborn kid is gonna go far.

When all is said and done Princeton routs Harvard, and I swear under my breath that I’ll donate twenty bucks to my alumni fund tomorrow to make up for how I cheered the thorough trouncing Sam delivered to my alma mater. The crowd starts to filter out and I make my way down the aisle toward the stage, almost bouncing with excitement. Sam has his back turned to me as he shoves crap into his knapsack and when I get within a step or two of him I pitch my voice lower and say, “excuse me, Mr. Seaborn, that was an extremely persuasive performance. May I have your autograph?”

He whirls around and stares at me, shock turning to recognition, then launches into my arms and laughs hysterically. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t visiting until the 16th!”

“I heard Harvard’s debate team was gonna get its ass kicked by my boyfriend and that was an impossible test of my loyalties that I couldn’t afford to miss.” I kiss his cheek. “Don’t worry, I only rooted for the Crimson when you weren’t the one arguing against them.”

“Josh, it’s a Thursday.”

“Yes, I’ve been aware of that all day.”

“Shouldn’t you be in Washington? You have work tomorrow.”

“There is a little thing called vacation time, Sam. I decided to take tomorrow off.”

The grin that splits his face could power the whole state of New Jersey. “I only have one class tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“We have 72 almost-uninterrupted hours together?”

“Looks like it. Maybe we could start with dinner? I just drove four hours with traffic and then watched two hours of debate on Constitutional amendments. I think I’ve earned a burger.”

“Oh, you’ve earned a lot more than a burger.” He clears his throat as he notices a few people are hovering, looking at us curiously. I’ve visited once before, but never strayed far beyond the confines of Sam’s dorm room. Despite his work with the GLSA I’m not sure how many people actually know Sam is gay, though they’re probably doing the math on that one given that Sam still has an arm slung around me and our level of proximity could only be interpreted as platonic by the willfully blind. Looking back at Sam, I can see his smile has curdled a touch and I try hard not to look concerned. “Come on,” he says in a low voice, “let’s get out of here.”

***********************************************************************************************************************

We grab dinner at an off-campus greasy spoon. I order a burger so charred that Sam swears it’s lost all protein content; he orders an ice cream sundae and tries not to get flustered when he catches me watching intently as he licks fudge sauce off the spoon. Then he ties the stem of the maraschino cherry into a knot with his tongue and it’s my turn to be flustered. For all the flirting and banter and covert touches under the table, I can tell he’s upset about something. The stress shows up in his eyes the same way every other emotion does. Maybe nobody else can read the little clues I see written on his expressive face, but I know Sam and I know something is wrong. I pick up the check and hustle him back to his dorm, less because I want to get him in bed than because I figure a crowded diner isn’t the best place for a serious discussion.

The moment he closes the door to his room, he’s twining himself around me and kissing me with exquisite sweetness. Kissing Sam is one of my favorite activities -- really, any kind of kiss will do -- and it’s tough to center my thoughts and remember that there’s a conversation to be had. As much as I really want to strip him naked and fuck him into the mattress, I am determined to hash this out first.

“You know, you look terrible,” I tell him between kisses. Hmm. That may not have been the best way to go about this.

Sam jerks back and fixes me with a hard look. “I know I haven’t seen you since I visited last month, but I didn’t think you’d lose your penchant for sweet talk _that_ quickly.”

“Okay, that came out wrong. But seriously, Sam? You haven’t given me a genuine smile since we left that auditorium. You’re upset, I can tell.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Then you shouldn’t have a problem talking about it.”

“Josh, come on.” He’s almost whining as he starts to undress, his jacket, tie, and dress shirt all coming off. “Can’t we talk after sex?”

“Nope.”

“Please?” Nimble fingers strip off my button-down and the cotton tank underneath, and he huffs a sigh when I catch his hand before it can undo my belt buckle. “Josh...”

“Believe it or not, I didn’t come here simply to get laid. I came to see you trounce your debating opponents and to spend time with you, just doing all the stupid little things I miss doing with you. That includes talking about shit.”

Sam actually laughs, but it’s a jagged bark of sound that holds no real humor. “Fine, you want me to talk? Where do you want me to start? How about with the fact the faculty shot down my GLSA proposal because the chair of the American History department felt it would be ‘corruptive’ to the morals of impressionable freshmen. I wrote a good proposal, Josh!”

“I know,” I say quietly. “I read it.”

“It was well-argued and had the right citations and posited the benefits of learning about this part of history from both an academic and a cultural standpoint. It was good!” He’s selling himself short. It was brilliant. “And I don’t think anyone read past the first paragraph of a 22- page paper. It might as well have been used to housebreak puppies.”

“Sam--”

“No, you wanted me to talk so I’ll talk!” He’s pacing in circles from the bed to me to the desk and back to the bed again, his hands balling into fists. “So the proposal gets shot down and the next thing I know, suddenly everyone seems to know I’m gay. And it’s not as if I’ve kept it secret since this semester began -- the few friends I have here already knew about you, and I told a couple of other people that I’d joined the GLSA. This is different. This is people I don’t know somehow knowing that I’m a faggot. Because a few of them have used that word, so I go to my advisor to say I’m being harassed and he tells me to develop a thicker skin. I tell my father what’s happening and he sighs and says, ‘this is what I warned you about.’ Brian, the captain of the debate team, spent all afternoon teasing me about the fact I drew the straw to debate a right to privacy by saying I probably interpret that as the right to suck another guy’s dick. And I’m riding the high of winning the debate but then you show up and Brian and these other assholes are staring at us like we’re circus freaks and _that’s_ why I’m upset! Is that enough of an explanation for you?!” Sam practically collapses on the bed, covering his face with his hands and staying motionless when I sink down next to him.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come. Did I make it worse?”

“No. _No_.” He sits bolt upright and takes my hands in his. “You being here tonight makes everything better. Fuck, Josh, I didn’t mean that I wanted you to stay away or that my life would be easier if you and I were stashed in a closet. The fact that you drove four hours to share tonight with me means…” Sam laughs for real this time. “It means everything. It makes everything better and it makes nothing worse.”

“When did this happen?”

“Which part?”

“The GLSA proposal being rejected.”

“Last Tuesday.”

“Last week? Nine days ago? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

He glares at me. “Because I was humiliated, Josh! Because I took a huge chance and I failed!”

“And you didn’t think you could tell _me_?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“Sam!”

“What do you want me to say? You told me I’m going to change the world and I can’t even make a little tweak to a college curriculum! You’re out there doing real work for an influential Congressman and I’m getting bullied up and down the campus by faculty and students alike! Should I have told you _that_?”

“Do you actually think the fact that you didn’t succeed at this makes me any less proud of you? Or that my job means I’m somehow above you when it comes to...well, anything?” I grab his shoulders, giving him a good shake. “You _are_ going to change the world. Guess what? It’s not going to happen overnight. You failed this time, so you analyze what happened and you’ll be better armed next time you go into battle. You’re going to get mocked and roughed up and spit on, and you’re going to come out victorious on the other end no matter how long it takes and no matter what you’re fighting for, because you are smarter and better than any asshole who’s going to try and stop you. Write that down and then check back with me in fifty years, and then you’ll have to listen to me say I told you so, because I know when I’m right, and I’m right about this.”

Finally I run out of steam and shut the hell up, watching Sam take in everything I’ve said. One of my hands slides from his shoulder to cup his throat, my thumb stroking along the sharp cut of his jaw. He closes his eyes and releases a momentous exhale, then chuffs a laugh under his breath. “How do you always know to say exactly what I need to hear?”

“I thought I was the guy who always puts his foot in his mouth,” I joke weakly.

Sam looks at me, azure eyes shining. “Not when it really matters.”

“It sucks sometimes, I know.”

“What does?”

“Caring so much.” Now I’m using both my hands to cup his face, and I draw him in for a kiss. “If everyone was as good a person as you, this whole thing would be a lot easier.”

“Josh…”

“I mean it.” I kiss him again. “Now, do you still want to have sex?”

He laughs, hard. “Have I ever turned down sex with you?”

“Nope.”

“So you have my go-ahead to finish stripping both of us and have your wicked way with me.”

“Good, because I have a few ideas for tonight I came up with during that long drive.” I peel off his undershirt and nudge him to lie down, covering his body with mine and shuddering at the feel of skin-on-skin.

Sam gasps and runs his hands over my back. “Like what?”

“Mmm, there are so many possibilities.” I shift and immediately groan as I feel his half-hard cock press against mine through far too many layers of fabric. “I could jerk you off and swallow your moans with those deep kisses you always beg for.”

“I never beg,” he insists.

“Yes, you do. You’re utterly shameless when I get you like this.”

“Liar.”

“Utterly shameless,” I say again, kissing down his neck and across his chest, lazily swirling my tongue around a nipple. “I suppose I could just do this for a while...that was another idea I had.”

“Josh,” he gasps, fingers threading through my hair. Sam’s chest is one beautiful erogenous zone, and doing this is a surefire way to make him melt. “Need more.”

“Like what?”

“You need to be inside me _now_ ,” Sam growls. (As much as Sam is capable of growling, which is not much.)

“So impatient,” I chide.

“Josh, I have spent three weeks without you and as much as I enjoy our phone calls it’s hardly a substitute for being fucked _hard_ by your gorgeous cock. Please, please, _please_ tell me that was one of your ideas because as much as I love foreplay I really need--”

“Sounds like you’re begging,” I say with unrepentant smugness.

“Josh!” He leverages his weight to flip us over, landing on top of me with a graceless ‘oof,’ and sets about removing what’s left of our clothing. “You are impossible, you know that?” He kisses my shoulder. “Impossible.” Kiss to the chest. “Maddening.” Tongue drags over my ribcage. “Infuriating, exasperating, vexing.”

“I feel like I’m making love to a thesaurus.”

“You’re not making love to _anyone_ at the moment, so shut up and get in me.” He scrambles for lube and a condom and drops them on my stomach.

“Such a romantic.”

“I swear to God, if you don’t--”

I silence him with a swift kiss. “Just having a little fun, Sam.”

“I think you can find better ways to have some fun.”

“Mmm, yeah.” I reach down and stroke my cock lazily, watching it swell to full hardness. If I weren’t so aroused I’d laugh at the look of extreme concentration on Sam’s face as he does nothing other than stare at me as I jerk my erection. When I’m good and ready I reach for the lube and smear it over the fingers of one hand, using my other to urge Sam onto his hands and knees. Two slick fingers push in, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face at the way his body yields to the intrusion. “You’ve been having some fun without me,” I murmur as I drop kisses along the perfect curve of his back.

“You know...oh God...how I fingered myself when you called on Monday. I described it in detail -- oh!” He jerks beneath me as I scissor my fingers over his prostate and then work in a third digit. “And last night too, you didn’t call but I still…” He stops talking and drops his head between his wrists, pushing his ass up further.

“You still needed to be filled?” A whimper is the only answer I receive as I continue to stretch him. “I wish I could have seen that, Sam. I would have driven here last night if I’d had known you’d be doing that.”

“Not the same,” he pants. His face is almost totally buried in the pillow, so it takes a moment to decipher the words. “I need your cock, Josh. I’m prepped, I’m ready…” At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s saying. Now he’s reaching for the condom and tearing the packet open, somehow managing to toss it back at me so it hits me square in the face. This time I do laugh.

After a few seconds to roll on the condom and coat my erection with lube, I grab Sam’s hips with both hands and sink into him. Despite the earlier penetration I make sure to go slow -- it’s been three weeks and I’m not exactly small. Sam makes these amazing little keening noises at the back of his throat with every inch I push in, and when I’m fully seated he lets out a shuddering exhale. God, I love how responsive he is. As much as I enjoy watching him beg -- his denials on that point notwithstanding -- it’s obvious I’ve made him wait long enough. I manage a shallow thrust, then a deeper one, then another deeper one, until I’ve built up a forceful rhythm that leaves us both breathless.

Draping myself almost completely over his lean body, I kiss the warm skin at the back of his neck. Sam still has his head down and the pillow swallows his steady stream of groans and sighs, while my own gasps get caught in my throat as his tight channel clenches around my dick. Not that I like thinking about this when I’m making love to my boyfriend, but I’ve been around the block a more than a few times before meeting Sam -- and nobody has ever made me feel like this during sex. Every sense is heightened; the sound of his moans shoot through me like electricity and the smell of sex is overpowering as it fills the room. And the sight of him, holy fuck, the sight of him is almost too much to bear as he lies spread out before me, his puckered hole stretched obscenely wide around my cock and the muscles of his back flexing as he thrusts back against the steady drilling I’m delivering.

I shift my angle slightly to allow one hand to reach around and grab his prick. It’s dripping with precome onto my fingers, sliding over the lube from when I fingerfucked him earlier, and the slippery mixture is perfect as I work my hand over his hard flesh. Despite my best efforts I’m not sure I’m actually jacking him off in time with my steady thrusts, but Sam doesn’t seem to notice if the sudden increase of volume in his reactions is any indication. I angle forcefully over his prostate and he yells my name into the pillow, his whole body seizing up as he comes half on my hand and half on his sheets. My hand drifts back to his hip, leaving trails of stickiness over his skin, and I pound into him with everything I have until my own body goes rigid and I spend myself inside the condom, his hole quivering even as I soften and slip out of him.

Having caught my breath, I gingerly remove and tie off the condom, and root around in his nightstand for the stuff we need. See, the disadvantage to fucking in the dorm room is that there’s no bathroom, but Sam’s developed a good system -- he’s all about keeping things in order -- wherein he has baby wipes in the drawer with the other necessary supplies, plus some plastic grocery bags that can be used to dispose of the used condoms and wipes. He’s got it down to a science. He’s also, for all his usual clumsiness, very talented at not landing in the mess he made on his sheets.

“Damnit,” he grumbles as he rubs at the wet spot with a moist wipe, “I did my laundry two days ago and now I’ll need to do another load.”

“I just fucked you within an inch of your life and you’re complaining about laundry?” I ask in disbelief.

“Would you prefer I complain about the sex?”

“What’s there to complain about?” I yelp.

“Nothing,” Sam says with a cheeky grin. “It’s just fun to wind you up sometimes.”

“Sometimes I wonder why I keep you around.”

“No, you don’t.”

I smile and rub my foot against his calf. “No, I don’t.”

“So you’re really here through Sunday?”

“Mm-hmm, you’re stuck with me.” His hum of contentment makes me smile. “Hey Sam, do you have an extra copy of your GLSA proposal?”

He lifts his head and looks at me, confused. “Yeah, I’ve got two extras.”

“Can I have one?”

“I already mailed you a copy two weeks ago.”

“You didn’t autograph it.”

His expression softens. “Josh...”

“I’d like an autographed copy. I told you earlier that I wanted your autograph.”

“I thought that was a joke.”

“It was,” I admit. “But I’m not joking now.”

“Okay,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll sign it.”

***********************************************************************************************************************

It isn’t until I get back to Washington three nights later that I learn Sam didn’t merely sign the proposal. The title page of “Why Stonewall Matters: A Proposal to the American History Department by Sam Seaborn on behalf of the Princeton Gay and Lesbian Student Association” has, as requested, “S. Seaborn” scrawled in ink across the top in my boyfriend’s elegant penmanship. That was the only part I noticed when he handed it to me to put into my bag before I left New Jersey.

What I didn’t realize, not until I’m lying on my stomach in bed and reading it again, was that the last page has an inscription. He must have written it surreptitiously one of the times I left him alone over the weekend, maybe when I went to shower or the time I went on a pizza and beer run. In the wide expanse of blank space under the proposal’s closing paragraph, I find the following:

_Josh,_

_You make all of this worth it. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for pushing me to see that it’s better to take the chance and fail than to curse injustice from the sidelines. And when you turn to me fifty years from now and say ‘I told you so,’ I promise to let you have the last word._

_Sam_

I trace the words with a fingertip, smiling like a fool. Walking over to the bookshelf at the other end of my room, I carefully wedge the proposal between my copy of _The 1984 Baseball Prospectus_ and my copy of _Common Sense_. Tomorrow I’m going to have to find a bookbinding place so I can make sure Sam’s words are properly cared for. After all, I’ll need to make sure it’s in good condition so I can pull it out to show him in fifty years.


	10. March 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Leo, this is really hard for me, and I’m coming here because I’ve known you half my life and I trust you. I know you’re my dad’s friend, but I’m asking you to be my friend right now. Is that...is that something you can do for me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A personal note: I tried to write this chapter with as much sensitivity to the topic as I could; I lost a friend to AIDS three years ago, and I had to be tested myself as a child after receiving blood transfusions in the early eighties (back when blood banks weren't yet their supply for the virus), and I take this subject very seriously. This isn't a matter of throwing in an angsty plot point for the hell of it.

JOSH POV

“Listen, I know I don’t have an appointment, but can you just tell him I’m here?” I flash my most charming smile at the secretary, hoping it’ll do the trick. “He knows me.”

“What’s your name again?” Her voice is much sweeter this time, and I allow my smile to widen further so the dimples flash. I’m not above a little manipulation.

“Josh Lyman.”

The woman picks up the phone and dials as I lean against the wall, foot tapping with an impatience that’s far beyond my usual nervous energy. “Mr. McGarry, there’s a Josh Lyman here. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She looks at me and says in an almost flirtatious tone, “he’ll be right out.”

Leo emerges from his office and greets me with a questioning smile and a handshake. “Josh, this is a nice surprise.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, Leo.”

“Believe me, you’re not,” he says. “Come on in.”

“These are some nice digs,” I say appraisingly as I go into his office and sit down on a plush couch.

“You’ve been here once before,” Leo reminds me.

“Yeah, right. Last year. Um, how’s Mallory? Has she settled on a college yet?”

“She’s applied to Brown, Penn, and Bryn Mawr. We’re waiting to hear.”

“Good schools. I’m sure she’ll get into at least one of them.” I rub my palms nervously over my thighs. “How’s Jenny?”

“Jenny’s fine. You want to stop trying to crawl out of your skin and tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on!” Damn, my voice got all high there.

“Josh.” Leo fixes me with a reproachful look that I swear my father must have taught him.

My heart hammers in my chest as I attempt to find the right way to phrase this. “I need your help and I need you to promise that this will stay confidential.”

“I can’t promise that until I know what it is,” Leo says, somewhat reasonably.

“It’s health-related. I just don’t want my parents to know.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Josh, if something’s wrong you shouldn’t keep it from them.”

“Leo, this is really hard for me, and I’m coming here because I’ve known you half my life and I trust you. I know you’re my dad’s friend, but I’m asking you to be my friend right now. Is that...is that something you can do for me?”

He exhales and nods. “Okay.”

Deep breaths. You can do this.

“I need to get tested for AIDS.”

“Oh my God, Josh--”

“I don’t have any symptoms of the virus, Leo,” I rush to tell him. “I really don’t, but I want to be sure I’m okay. I want to get tested, and I don’t know how to do it in this town without someone finding out – and I can’t risk that. I’m an openly gay junior staffer. I’m expendable. Even if I test negative, the fact that I even got tested could be used as grounds to fire me, or to prevent me from getting hired in the future. You know people – you know _everybody_ – and I thought maybe you could help find a way for me to do this with as much discretion as possible. The FDA just approved this test and it would make me feel a hell of a lot better if I could get it and be sure I’m healthy.”

Leo’s eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them, and he’s clearly floundering for a response to what I’ve just requested. A few times he looks like he’s about to start speaking, then no words follow. Finally he stands up and goes over to his wet bar, pouring two drinks. “Here, take this. I think I need one of my own.”

“Thanks.” I gratefully accept the glass of Scotch and sip, not much caring that it’s 10:00 in the morning.

“I can make some inquiries at the NIH. There are some good people there who are working very hard on this, and I’m sure one of them can provide guidance on how to proceed.”

I nod and stare at the amber liquid in the glass, swirling it around. “Thank you,” I say again.

“I won’t tell your parents. But Josh, if the test...if it…” He takes a gulp of his drink and winces. “Do you think you could have the virus? If you do have it, you can’t keep that a secret from them.”

“If the test says…” I shudder. “I wouldn’t keep that from them. But I don’t want anyone worrying about this if the test says what I think it will say. There’s no need to get them all worked up and then I find out I’m not sick.”

“That’s fair.”

The dazed look on Leo’s face makes me feel ill. “Leo, I know you have so much stuff on your plate already. I’m sorry to drop in on you and do this, but I didn’t know who else I could go to.”

There’s that reproachful look again. At least it’s better than having him look like I just hit him with a two-by-four. “I told your father I’d watch out for you when you came to Washington.”

“I doubt this was what he had in mind.”

“That’s a safe bet.” The vein of dark humor in Leo’s voice allows me to relax a fraction. “You never answered my question.”

Best to play dumb. “Which question?”

“Do you think there’s a real chance you could have AIDS?”

The rest of my drink is gone in one swallow, and I cough through the burn that slides down my throat. “It’s a possibility.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Leo, I’ve been…” Jesus, this is awkward. “I’ve been having sex since 1977, and I didn’t use condoms until 1982. You know as well as I do that the virus was spreading before 1982.”

“How many partners did you have before you started using protection?”

“God, do I really have to get into this?”

“If you want my help, then yes I’d appreciate complete candor.”

I look everywhere but his face. “About twenty.”

“Twenty?!”

“It’s not like that was all in one night,” I snark, my hackles rising.

“Josh!”

“All due respect, Leo, I really don’t need your moralistic judgment right now. I didn’t know at the time that this was something I was at risk for, okay? I wasn’t hurting anybody, nobody took advantage of me, and as soon as I learned enough about AIDS to know how to protect myself I took immediate precautions. I’m not stupid -- I know what this virus does and I’m scared to death thinking that there’s a chance I could be infected. So if you could lay off the lecture on my past promiscuity until after I get the test done, I’d really appreciate it!”

Leo shakes his head and finishes his drink. “Fine. But afterwards, you and I are going to have a discussion about--”

“About what?” I ask, my frustration giving way to weariness. I’ve barely slept the past two nights since I decided I needed to get tested. “I’m not sleeping around anymore, okay? I’ve been with Sam for nine months now.”

Sam. Not that I’m not afraid for myself, but anytime I think about Sam my throat gets all tight and breathing becomes difficult. I’ve been so careful, always making sure to use condoms; no matter how keyed up I get when we’re together I would never risk his health. In the back of my head I’ve had this nagging voice that, even though I seem fine, there’s a chance I could be infected but asymptomatic. That voice has been getting increasingly louder over the last month or so, and the last time he visited me I kept making excuses not to penetrate him even with a condom. Condoms aren’t foolproof. I could be asymptomatic and the condom could break and Sam could get…

“Kid?” Leo’s voice is far gentler than it was a minute ago. “You still with me?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you talked to Sam about this?”

“Not yet. Like I said, no need to worry people if I’m gonna test negative. Besides, we always practice safe sex. I’d never risk that with him, you know?” God, I really did not want to talk about my sex life with Leo. This is awkward as hell for both of us.

“Fine. Listen, I’m going to call over to the NIH and to find a referral for confidential testing.”

I nod my thanks. “I really appreciate this, Leo.”

“Yeah. Listen, I should have something for you by the end of today. I’ll work on it.”

“Ah-kay. Thank you.”

Leo stands up and I follow suit, walking to the door on legs that feel like jello. “Josh, if you are sick...I just…” The fumbling pauses make me wince. Leo McGarry is never at a loss for words. “You have people who will be here for you, is all I’m saying. I’m one of ‘em.”

I nod again and clench my jaw to try and steady the odd mixture of tears and bile that war inside me. “Well, if Reagan has his way he’ll just keep ignoring it and let us all die off. Or ship us to an island somewhere. Although if he ships us to Fire Island it might not be all bad, not that I’ve ever been one for camp and hot pants--”

“Josh.” A hand on my arm puts a stop to my rambling. “Just go. I’ll call you tonight.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

I breeze out of his office past the clueless flirting secretary without looking back, trying with all my might to look casual and self-assured. As soon as I’m outside, the frigid air invades my lungs and I cough hard, the alcohol in my stomach threatening to make a sudden reappearance. Leaning against a phone booth, I wave off a concerned passerby who asks if I’m okay. No, I won’t be okay until I know that I’m HIV-negative. And if that’s not the case, then I don’t know if anything will ever be okay again. I’ll lose my job, I’ll break my parents’ hearts, I’ll lose my _life_. All I want to do is go home and call Sam. But if I do that I’ll break down and tell him what’s happening, and the last thing he needs is to spend the next week terrified that his boyfriend might have AIDS and he might have it, too. If I’m infected, he’ll have to get tested. And if he tests positive I’ll never forgive myself, no matter how many precautions we’ve taken.

***********************************************************************************************************************

“You didn’t need to come with me,” I say for the fourth time.

“And yet I’m still here.” Leo doesn’t look up from his crossword puzzle.

“Leo, I--”

“Josh, you shouldn’t be alone when you get the results,” he tells me firmly. “Just be quiet and wait for the doctor to come in.”

I shake my head, disbelieving that one of the top guys at the DNC scrapped his entire schedule for this morning to accompany me here, his close ties to my family notwithstanding. I’ve always had a hero worship thing going with Leo, but this feels like it’s edging into territory where he’s becoming a surrogate father. Thank God my own dad asked him to keep an eye on me. I’m enough of a wreck as is and it’s only Leo’s presence that’s keeping me from going crazy as the minutes tick by without the doctor arriving.

I look at my watch again. “Do you think it’s a bad sign that he’s late?”

“No. Goddamnit, this crossword is not using the OED spelling for some of these clues and it’s throwing everything off.”

“Seriously Leo, do you think--”

“Josh, stop. You’re getting yourself all worked up.”

“It’s a little late for that,” I mutter.

The door swings open and an avuncular man with wire-rimmed glasses walks in clutching a manila folder that I assume holds my test results. “Mr. Lyman, I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

“No problem, doc,” I say with a blitheness that I’m sure doesn’t fool Leo.

Leo tucks his crossword puzzle into his briefcase. “Dr. Braddock, I’m Leo McGarry. I’m a family friend.”

The doctor shakes Leo’s hand, then turns to me. “I’ll make this quick and painless, Mr. Lyman. Your blood test shows no trace of the HIV virus. You tested negative.”

I drop my head to my chest and gulp in deep breaths, relief flooding through me. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“This is a printout of your test results if you need them. Once again, I’d remind you to still use prophylactics with any partners whose HIV status is unknown. You’re in a high risk population due to your homosexuality and--”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Leo says brusquely. “You can leave the folder with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this is completely confidential.” Leo doesn’t pose it as a question.

“Completely, Mr. McGarry.”

“Fine. If you could please leave us alone, I’d appreciate it.”

My head is still spinning as I hear the door snick shut behind the doctor. I’m not infected. I tested negative. There’s no chance I could have infected Sam. “Oh my God,” I breathe, finally lifting my head. “I’m really...I mean, there’s no chance…”

Leo hands me the printout. “There it is in black and white.”

I scan the dense clinical language, not quite believing what I see. “Leo...thank you.”

He looks slightly uncomfortable. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yes, it was! You arranged for everything and then you came with me today so I wouldn’t totally lose it.”

“I told you, I promised Noah I’d look after you.” He gives me a gentle smile. “Besides that, I’ve become pretty fond of you independent of your father -- God only knows why. I didn’t like thinking of you going through this alone if you refused to tell your parents about this. Now that you know the results, you really should tell them – one less thing for everyone to worry about. Your mom and dad read the same newspaper articles I do, and I imagine it’s something they have concerns about. Do me a favor and give them a call, put their mind at ease.”

“I will. I promise.” I grab the folder with the results and shove it into my knapsack. “But I gotta call Sam first.”

***********************************************************************************************************************

_“Hi, you’ve reached Sam. I’m sorry I’m not here to take your call. Please leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Thanks and have a great day.”_

“Sam, it’s me. Are you there? This is the third message I’ve left since yesterday. Um...okay. Call me?”

I hang up with a muttered curse and try not to worry about how Sam hasn’t been in his dorm room to take any of my calls in the past 36 hours. It’s midterm exam week; maybe he’s cramming in the library. Maybe he’s with the Gilbert & Sullivan Society or the GLSA or the debate team or just out for pizza with a few friends. Or it could be that--

The phone rings and I pretty much dive off the couch to answer it. “Hello?”

“Josh.”

“Hey, Sam! I just left you a message.”

“Um, yeah. I was here.”

I frown at the affectless tone of voice. “You were there? Why didn’t you pick up?”

“Because I thought it was you.”

“Ah-kay…” I wonder what stupid thing I’ve done now if he’s ducking my calls. “Clue me in, Sam.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

“What?! Where the fuck did _that_ come from?”

“You left three messages that only said I should call you, and before yesterday you didn’t call for almost a week! The few times I’ve managed to get you on the phone it’s like your head is somewhere else. When I saw you last time you kept coming up with reasons not to take me to bed -- I could barely get you to do anything with me, Josh! If you’re going to end this, just do it already.” He sounds completely despondent.

“No, Sam, I am not ending anything! It’s not like that at all.”

“Then what’s going on?”

“What’s going on is that I’m a moron.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” I cringe at the bitterness that comes through over the line.

“I was upset and I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want _you_ to be upset.”

“That plan kind of backfired, huh?”

“No kidding,” I say miserably. “Look, I had to see a doctor about something.”

“About what?” Bitterness morphs sharply into alarm.

“Everything’s fine, but I didn’t know that until yesterday.”

“What happened, Josh?”

“I…” I take a breath to center myself. “I got an AIDS test. I’m negative.”

The answering silence stretches out for no more than ten seconds in reality, though it feels like ten minutes. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“I didn’t want to scare the shit out of you while I waited for the results!”

“You spent all this time dealing with this and never told me? God, no wonder you wouldn’t fuck me! Josh, you should have said something!”

“I told you, I didn’t want--”

“I don’t care! I love you and that means if you’re going through something, I want to be there for you. And I’m not stupid, Josh. I never asked your sexual history and, quite frankly, I’m not asking for it now, but you mentioned you lost your virginity when you were seventeen so I knew that meant you had a few partners before AIDS was identified and before there was a widespread recommendation to use condoms – which you explicitly told me was why you wanted _us_ to use condoms! I knew this was something you worried about despite seeming uninfected, so why on earth would you keep me in the dark when you got tested? Don’t treat me like some sheltered little kid--”

“We’re back to this?” I cry out in frustration.

“Josh!”

“It’s not about you being a kid, which you’re not! It’s about the fact that I love you _desperately_ and I hated myself for thinking that there was any chance I’d put you at risk of infection! Condoms break, Sam! I could have been infected even if I seemed healthy, and there could have been a rip in a condom, and…” I struggle to catch my breath. “I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I’d gotten you sick, even accidentally! Do you get that?”

“Yes,” Sam sighs. “I love you too, so much. Just talk to me next time, okay? I can’t read your mind, especially when I’m three states away.”

“Right. I promise to be better at the whole communication thing.”

“I could have helped you through this, you know. Did you deal with this all by yourself?”

“No, Leo set up the test and he went with me for the results. I didn’t tell my parents until this morning.”

“How’d they react?”

“Extreme relief. Apparently they’d both been worried about the possibility I’d contracted the virus for a good year or so but didn’t know how to broach the subject. I think they were in denial about it, because neither of them is ever anything other than nosy when it comes to my life.”

“You’re their only surviving child,” Sam says quietly. “They were probably terrified.”

I close my eyes, not wanting to think about Joanie. “Probably, yeah.”

“Do you want me to get tested?”

“You?”

“Sure, why not? You got tested.”

“Unless you’re a really good actor, I know you were a virgin when we met. And I’m fairly sure I’m still the only guy you’ve been with.”

“You are!” he exclaims.

“So, why would you need to get tested?”

“To make you feel better?”

I try not to laugh. “Sam, I trust you. Just promise not to attend any bareback orgies and we’ll be fine.” I can almost _feel_ his blush.

“Um, you know…”

“Hmm?”

“If you’ve been tested, we don’t need condoms anymore.”

“Yeah?”

“I trust _you_ ,” he tells me without reservation.

My mouth goes dry. “I’m coming up next weekend for your birthday.”

“Yes you are, and this time I’m going to insist that you fuck me.” He takes a breath. “I want to feel all of you, Josh. I don’t want anything between us.”

“I--I think that can be arranged. Next weekend, huh?”

“Yes. And Josh?”

“Hmm?”

“You can always talk to me – about anything. Don’t ever think I’d be better off if you kept something to yourself, not if it’s something that’s making you hurt. Please let me be here for you.”

“I promise next time I get this upset I’ll talk to you,” I vow.

“Good. Now I hate to cut this short, but I have an economics midterm in fourteen hours, so…”

“Go. Call me tomorrow?”

“I will. I love you.”

“Love you, Sam. I love you so much.”


	11. June 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Watch as our hero slays his nemesis with the sword of true love!”

JOSH POV

If you told me a year ago that I’d be blissfully cohabiting with a boyfriend, I would have called you crazy. If you added to that the assertion that I’d been in love with said boyfriend for the entire twelve months we’ve been together, and I’ve told him that on a near-daily basis for eleven of those twelve months, I’d have wrapped you in a straitjacket and sent you to a psych ward. None of this was supposed to happen.

Now, to be fair, a year ago I’d already met Sam and you bet your ass I’d noticed how drop-dead gorgeous he is, so it _wouldn’t_ have come as a surprise that I’d pursue him once I figured out that he’s gay, or that I’d succeed in bedding him. (Hey, it’s not arrogance. I had an impressive track record is all I’m saying.) But nothing in that two-week gap between when we first met in Congressman Brennan’s office and when we had that fateful chat on the Mall indicated to me that we would end up here. It was love at first sight for Sam, but it took that shining moment of clarity when he dared to lean in and press his lips to mine for me to realize that I never stood a chance against losing my heart to him – and thank God for that. Everything about my life is better now that I share it with Sam. He is generous, witty, brilliant, supportive, kind, loving, and out-of-this-world beautiful. He is neurotic, a neat freak, weirdly obsessed with dental hygiene, idealistic to a fault, hypersensitive, and distressingly ignorant about baseball. I love almost every complex piece of his being, and I can’t imagine that will ever change.

However, to be perfectly honest, right now I really want to smack him upside the head.

Today is our anniversary. It was June 10th last year that I threw a little shindig at my apartment solely to get Sam to spend an evening with me and, lo and behold, my plan worked out better than I ever could have dreamed. Last year, June 10th was a Sunday. Today it is a Monday, which means I had to be at work. We had plans to go to dinner at a nice bistro near the Capitol, but reality intruded and I had to help Brennan put together a last-minute caucus on a new piece of affordable housing legislation he’s hoping to pass. The Congressman was made leader of the Congressional Black Caucus only two weeks ago, and the whole staff has been working around the clock to get his legislative agenda up to a level that reflects his new leadership position. Coincidentally, it’s also been two weeks since Sam came down to D.C. for the summer to work as a staffer in the press office at the ACLU, helping write press releases and targeted mailings, and he’s had a hard time adjusting to the fact that my job goes far beyond the nine-to-five, five-days-a-week schedule that his consists of. Last summer I had this same gig but it wasn’t as crazy as it is now; Brennan’s profile has jumped exponentially in the past year and as his Floor Manager my amount of personal time has diminished correspondingly.

All of this means that the inevitable happened: hard as I tried to get out of the office by 7:00, it was not going to happen. The Congressman and his Chief of Staff are both great guys, but there was no way they were going to let me run out on them so I could have a romantic dinner when we had to get this caucus handled immediately. I called the restaurant, the maitre’d fetched Sam from the table, and I made my profuse apologies in the five seconds he let me talk before hanging up on me. Look, I understand why he’s angry. I’d be pissed, too. But it’s not as if I did it deliberately! I didn’t make reservations three weeks ago solely so I could cancel them! If he wants to blame someone he should blame Congressmen Morehouse, Floyd, and Griffin, since they’re the ones who tried to block the caucus and forced me to spend my evening arm-wrestling their staffs into submission.

By the time I get home it’s almost 10:00 and he’s parked on the sofa watching some nature show on PBS and sulking like a toddler. And this is what pisses me off about Sam: when he gets it in his head that he’s on the side of the angels, he gets the most massive superiority complex I have ever seen. Everything becomes black and white to him. Everything becomes a morality play and he’s incapable of being wrong. It’s not a matter of me working late, it’s a matter of me being the most selfish asshole known to man; I may as well have betrayed the very foundation of our relationship by ruining our plans, even though I never set out to ruin anything.

I apologize again the moment I’m in the door, and he gives me the motherfucking silent treatment. I try to appease him by giving him a takeout box from the bakery around the corner with the same miniature fruit tarts I served at the potluck one year ago tonight, and he pushes the offering onto the coffee table without sparing it a second glance. I turn off the television in an attempt to get him to speak, and he storms into the bedroom.

Fine. Two can play this game. I choose not to follow him and instead get out my extra set of sheets from the linen closet, draping them over the couch. Stripping down to my undershirt and boxers, I flop down and yell, “good night!” For good measure, I eat both of the fruit tarts before falling asleep.

***********************************************************************************************************************

“Josh?”

“Huh? Yeah?” I blink and look up at Sam standing over me, his silhouette backlit by the streetlights shining in through the window. “What time is it?”

“About 11:30.” He shifts his weight from one foot to another. “You should come to bed.”

“How gracious of you to give me permission to sleep in my own bed,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. Sitting up, I rub my eyes and yawn. “You do realize I didn’t deliberately sabotage our plans, right?”

“Yes.” Sam looks everywhere other than my face.

“And I fully intend to make it up to you.”

“I know. You did get me those little tarts.”

“Um, I kind of ate both the tarts.”

Sam lets a small laugh escape. “Of course you did.”

I reach out and pull him down next to me. “I’m sorry about tonight. I truly am. But I couldn’t do anything about it, and you knew that as well as I did.”

“It still hurt. I was so embarrassed, Josh! I sat at that table waiting for you and then I had to explain to the maitre’d why I was giving up the reservation. And it’s our anniversary! I know you didn’t mean to ruin it but it still got ruined.”

“I can make it up to you. I’ll take you out another night.”

“When will that be? Because you’re _always_ at work. I thought we were going to spend this summer _together_.”

I count to five to keep myself from saying something stupid. “We are doing exactly that, Sam. You knew my job was ramping up before you came down for the summer! You’re always telling me how proud you are of the work I do and this kind of shit comes with the territory! My boss is now a key player in the United States Congress and he’s tapped me to manage the day-to-day realities of his legislative agenda and build relationships with the staffs of dozens of Representatives so he can be seen as having a broad coalition of support beyond the Black Caucus and even beyond the Democratic Party. Does that sound like a gig that lends itself to a nine-to-five shift?”

“I know all that!” Sam rubs his temples. “But still...Josh, it was our anniversary!”

I enfold him in my arms, kissing his cheek. “I’m sorry. There will be other anniversaries, I promise. There will be so many other opportunities for me to get it right.”

“Okay,” he says in a small voice. “And I’m sorry, too.”

“It’s fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, you did piss me off and I was prepared to sleep on the couch to demonstrate the levels of my annoyance--”

“I get the point.”

“But it’s fine.”

He kisses me then, so soft and tender that my heart stutters. It feels like it did a year ago, when we sat on this same couch and he dared to take a chance on me, except now there’s 365 days of history between us, and a promise of so many more days to come. “Sweetheart, come to bed.” I smile at the ‘sweetheart’ thing. He’s been slipping it in since he moved down for the summer; I started using ‘babe’ for him a few months ago. It’s one of those couple-y things I would have found unbearably obnoxious were it anyone other than Sam and I using these pet names. Like I said earlier, I never expected to end up at this point. I’ve become the guy who apologizes, who uses terms of endearment, who remembers anniversaries and makes an attempt to celebrate them properly.

“Sam? I don’t want to smack you upside the head anymore.”

“That’s good. You wanted to smack me earlier?”

“Just a little. Not so much as it’d hurt you or anything.”

“Ah.” I hear, rather than see, his smile. “Come on, Josh. Come to bed with me.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“Actually, I did.”

“Sam?”

“I should shut up?”

“Yeah.”

***********************************************************************************************************************

I make it up to him three nights later. I get out of work by 6:30 and call Sam, telling him I’m going to pick up dinner; I swing by the local Chinese restaurant for way more takeout food than we could finish in one night, then I stop at the florist on our block and pick up a small bouquet of white peonies, marking the first time I’ve bought flowers for anyone. Yeah, I’m whipped -- especially considering that realizing I’m whipped makes me smile and feel all warm inside.

The peonies are a big hit with Sam, at least judging by the thorough kiss I receive upon my arrival. We end up spreading a blanket on the living room floor and having an indoor picnic with heaping plates of cold sesame noodles, shrimp dumplings, and broccoli with garlic sauce, beer for each of us, and the Orioles game playing on the television in the background. Sam indulges my need to explain to him why the designated hitter is a plague upon humanity, and I grin when he starts in on a rant about incorrect grammar in a _Newsweek_ article he read this morning. I use my chopsticks to feed him some broccoli, then kiss away a dot of garlic sauce that landed on the corner of his mouth.

It’s all so sweet and domestic that I almost want to laugh. Sam has been living with me for three weeks now, same as he did for most of last summer, and it’s the most natural thing in the world. After nine months of occasional weekend visits, marathon long-distance calls, and about three dozen love letters between us, I’ve got him all to myself until Labor Day weekend. I wake up next to him every morning and fall asleep next to him every night, we talk about our days after work, we drive each other crazy and make each other laugh. We’re not simply sharing an apartment, we’re sharing our lives.

“Hey, where’d you go just now?” Sam taps my forehead with the clean end of a chopstick. He’s sitting behind me, propped up against the foot of the sofa, holding me in a loose embrace.

“Just thinking.” I swivel my head around and kiss him.

“Can I make a confession?”

“Sure.”

“This was nicer than a fancy bistro dinner.”

“You’re saying that after all the grief you gave me on Monday?” I laugh incredulously.

“That wasn’t so much about the bistro itself,” Sam points out. “All I’m saying is that this was perfect. I don’t need to get all dressed up and have you spend a lot of money to feel appreciated.”

“Maybe I enjoy seeing you all dressed up.”

“I thought you liked seeing me not dressed at all.”

Turning around so we’re facing each other, I pull him into my lap. “I like you any way I can get you, Sam.”

“You really are sweet.”

“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my fearsome rep.”

“Your fearsome rep, sure,” he says, indulging me.

“Hey, I got that affordable housing caucus convened almost singlehandedly,” I remind him. “I kicked ass and took names.”

“You are egregiously fearsome, Josh.” He plants a kiss on my mouth. “With a soft, gooey center. Like a terrifying moon pie.”

“Okay, that is the strangest analogy ever applied to me. Is this brand of wordsmithing what the ACLU pays you for?”

Sam shrugs. “I like imagery. Here, have a fortune cookie.” He hands me a cookie and cracks open his own, scrutinizing the fortune.

I read my own scrap of paper and let out an undignified guffaw. “‘Do not be afraid to have faith in yourself.’”

“Yeah, I don’t think that one applies to you,” Sam laughs. “If your self-confidence got any higher it’d be in the ozone layer. Oooh, mine says--”

“‘You will find love with a nice Jewish boy from Westport.”

“Nope, I already did that. And don’t interrupt. It says, ‘Fear not the judgment of others.’”

“...in bed,” I tack on with a cheeky grin.

“So now I have to worry you’re judging me in bed?”

“Nothing to worry about. I can tell you that you always get perfect scores.” I kiss the hollow of his throat and revel in his squirm. “So am I forgiven for Monday night?”

“Let’s see -- you apologized, you bought me flowers, got some excellent takeout, and now you’re telling me I’m awesome in bed. Maybe our plans should get ruined more often,” Sam teases. “And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too.”

I hesitate but ask the question anyway. “Do you think we fight too much?”

“We don’t fight, Josh. We argue.” The immediacy of the response makes me think the question has already crossed Sam’s mind.

“There’s a difference?”

“Sure. We piss each other off, but it never lasts more than a couple of hours, maybe a day or two at the most. Did I ever do something so stupid that it made you think we’d be better off breaking up?”

“No!”

“And you’ve never done something so stupid that I’d think we’d be better off breaking up. It doesn’t bother me that we argue. I think it’s healthy. Besides, think of all the great make-up sex it lends itself to.”

I snort. “Well, that’s certainly one fringe benefit.”

“We both have strong personalities,” Sam says. “And neither of us backs down when we think we’re right about something. It’s probably inevitable that we’d get into stupid arguments.” He tilts his head and studies me with those gorgeous blue eyes. “You keep me on my toes. It’s impossible to get complacent around you, and that’s one thing I love so much about our relationship.”

A reflexive smile crosses my face at the sound of the words ‘our relationship’ and I note Sam’s quizzical tilt of the head. “‘Our relationship,’” I parrot. “I never thought I’d be that guy.”

“What guy is that?”

“Relationship guy.”

“Sounds like a comic book superhero. Relationship Man!” Sam intones in a mock baritone.

“Relationship _guy_ ,” I correct him.

“Stronger than insecurity and commitment-phobia!” he thunders, ignoring my interruption. “Able to leap stupid arguments in a single bound!”

“First you compare me a moon pie, then you turn me into a superhero. Sometimes I worry about you.”

“Watch as our hero slays his nemesis with the sword of true love!”

“The sword of true love?”

“Imagery,” he says again.

“Sam!” I’m laughing like mad as I pin him to the floor and kiss him breathless. “You are utterly insane, do you know that?”

“So you’ve told me,” he says, his smile wide and open. “But you wouldn’t have me any other way.”

“No,” I agree, kissing him again. “I wouldn’t.”


	12. July 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know, I’ve heard that giving blow jobs is the best hangover cure of all.”  
> “I’m quite sure you made that up.”

SAM POV

The first thought that pops in my head when I wake up is that I’m more than a little hungover. The second thought is to wonder where Josh is, as I’m alone in bed on this far-too-sunny-for-my-comfort-level Saturday morning. The third thought is to conclude that Josh is in the shower, tipped off by the sound of his truly atrocious rendition of “Hey Jude” carrying over the distant sound of running water. The fourth thought is that I should join him in the shower, if not in song. But first I reach for the Tylenol and glass of water that my man has oh-so-considerately left by the bedside.

Josh has reached the fourth refrain of “na-na-na-na-na-na-na” when I shuck off my briefs and open the shower door, stepping into the stall with him. The water has plastered his curls to his head, water dripping into his beautiful, expressive eyes, and his mouth is frozen open in surprise at my sudden appearance. Then his lips curl into a devilish grin, and I find myself pinned to the wall and kissed until I barely know my own name. The second he releases my mouth I follow his retreat, kissing back with equal fervor. There is something so enchanting about him right now, looking so carefree after a chaotic week at work that took every ounce of his energy to survive. Amazingly he heeded my exhortation not to drink much when we went out late last night and if I weren’t so turned on I’d be pissed off that he’s not dealing with a hangover of his own.

“Good morning,” he murmurs against my lips. “How’s your head?”

“Manageable. Thanks for the Tylenol.”

“There’s coffee brewing, too.”

“You’re an angel.”

“We both know that’s not true,” Josh chuckles before capturing my lips again.

“Mmm, I love you like this.”

“Like what, soaking wet? I must look like a drowned rat.”

“No, you look happy.”

“I am happy.”

“I bet I can make you even happier.” I sink to my knees and take his cock in hand, stroking and teasing it to hardness.

Josh groans and his head thuds against the tiled wall. “Yeah, that’s a pretty safe bet. You know, I’ve heard that giving blow jobs is the best hangover cure of all.”

“I’m quite sure you made that up.”

“No, no,” he says, his voice getting higher in pitch as I press my tongue against the underside of his shaft, tracing the vein. “It was in _Reader’s Digest_ last month.”

“You are so full of shit, Josh,” I laugh. Then I stop speaking and impale my mouth on his cock, savoring the familiar weight against my tongue. The pulse of the water matches the steady throb of Josh’s dick, hot and heavy as it fills my throat and I work my jaw until it aches. Josh has a hand in my hair, holding me still while his hips stutter forward and he fucks my face, and my own cock is achingly hard. I whimper shamelessly around the thick shaft lodged between my lips, my hands cradling Josh’s balls and drifting back to brush over his anus. I may be the indisputable bottom in this relationship, but touches like this -- light, teasing, never quite penetrating -- always cause his arousal to spike. Predictably he moans and jerks his hips, almost causing me to choke from burying his cock so deep in my throat.

When Josh pushes me off his prick I shake my head in an attempt to assure him it wasn’t too much, but the look in his eyes is feral instead of concerned and my words of protest die before I can utter them. His fingers wrap around strands of my hair again and he urges me to tilt my head back, his free hand pumping his cock and aiming it at my face. Oh. Oh yes. We’ve only done this several times before and my cock twitches at the mere thought of knowing Josh is going to claim me in this way. I can barely hear the sound of Josh’s hand working his dick over the roaring in my ears. _Yes, please, give it to me_ , I plead silently. I dart my tongue out to wet my swollen top lip and his eyes darken at the sight, pupils dilating; for good measure I look up at him from under my lashes. After a year with Josh, I know exactly what works for us.

The first spurt of come hits my cheek, the second landing on my open mouth. I close my eyes and let his essence spill over my wet skin, my own cock throbbing with need, and it takes a second for me to register that those gasps bouncing off the tiled walls are tumbling from my own lips. Josh hauls me to my feet and wastes no time in coating his fingertips in the mess on my face, feeding it back to me and groaning as I suck his fingers clean. He reaches for the conditioner and pours some over the fingers of his other hand, then grabs my neglected prick and starts jerking it with sure strokes designed to get the job done quickly. It’s over embarrassingly fast, my head buried in the crook of Josh’s neck as I babble unintelligible words and shoot my own release over his hand and stomach. I sag against him and laugh slightly for no reason other than I am wrapped in sheer happiness standing here with Josh. His fingers, the ones I sucked on moments ago, roam over my back, drumming to some beat I can’t hear.

“You good?” he asks finally.

“Better than.” I pull my head back to look at him and my grin widens. He just looks so damned cute when he’s wet.

“How’s your head?”

“I think some coffee would make it better.”

“Okay, then. Let’s get clean and I’ll get you coffee and breakfast.”

“You’ll make me breakfast?” I ask dubiously, grabbing the shampoo and conditioner for a more manufacturer-approved use than what Josh just repurposed it for.

“Yes. We have many fine breakfast cereals in the kitchen that I am more than capable of mixing with milk. I may also be skilled enough to pour orange juice into a glass.”

“As long as you’re not overexerting yourself there, Josh.”

He laughs and sneaks a kiss, then another. It turns into a long, slow makeout session with his hand roaming down to grab my ass. “Do you have any fucking idea how much you turn me on?” he asks in a husky voice. “God, Sam -- the sight of you before on your knees…”

“Mmm, like having your gorgeous cock in my mouth didn’t make me crazy?” I shiver as the water, which has been growing tepid, finally crosses the threshold into ‘cold’ territory. “I guess we’re done here?”

Josh turns off the water and steps out, grabbing towels for each of us. “Hell of a way to start the day,” he says with a lazy smile. “I guess it’s all downhill from here.”

***********************************************************************************************************************

“I had an idea the other day.”

“Just one?” Josh ducks as I throw my pen at his head. “Hey!”

“Wiseass.” I retrieve the pen and continue scratching notes in the margins of the LSAT prep book I have balanced precariously on my knee.

“What was this idea?”

“About August. You said we should take a vacation.”

“Yeah. Congress is in recess so I get two full weeks off, and one of those overlaps with your free week between the end of your job and the start of the fall semester. It seems logical we should go off and have fun somewhere.”

“Very logical,” I agree.

“And you have an idea about this?”

“Yes. Rehoboth Beach.”

Josh perks up and grins. “That’s an idea worth exploring.”

I jump up and go into the kitchen, grabbing a book from my knapsack. “This is a travel guide that outlines the best places for gay and lesbian travel in the United States. Rehoboth is supposed to be a welcoming place. It’s not Fire Island or Provincetown, but we wouldn’t have to look over our shoulders if we went out together. They have B&Bs that cater to gay couples, a gorgeous beach that we could hang out at…” I look at him with a hopeful smile.

“A week of surf and sand?” Josh flips through the dog-eared pages.

“Surf, sand, and sex,” I amend.

“Just promise me no sex _in_ the sand. That’s never a good idea.”

“Speaking from experience?”

He flashes me a grin that makes my stomach do somersaults. “Puerto Vallarta, spring break 1979.”

“I really don’t need to hear this,” I say with a mock-groan.

“Hey, nothing for you to feel threatened by. I’m a one-man man now, Sam.”

“Damn straight.”

“Curious turn of phrase there, babe,” he snickers. “Anyway, you don’t need to worry about Puerto Vallarta. _I’ll_ need to worry about keeping every guy within fifty miles of Rehoboth from trying to steal you away.”

“You certainly do not need to worry about that.” I blush at Josh’s guffaw of disbelief. “Okay, you don’t need to worry that they’ll succeed. How’s that? I’m a one-man man, too.”

“You’d better be. Hey, look at this -- we could rent a place for the week.” Josh shoves the book under my nose and taps his finger against a blurb promoting beach house rentals.

“Josh, that’s too expensive!” I exclaim, looking at the listed prices.

“I could swing it.”

“How? Your government salary is not what I’d call cushy.”

He rubs the back of his neck and looks a little uncomfortable. “I have a trust fund. My grandfather set it up for me. Once I turned 25 I gained access to the money.”

“Oh.” Yes, I knew Josh’s family is well-off -- his father’s a managing partner at Debevoise & Plimpton and he grew up in an enormous house in Westport. Still, a trust fund?

“I have full discretion on withdrawals. I haven’t touched it yet, but one of those houses is about two grand a week and I don’t have that much lying around.”

“You shouldn’t withdraw from the trust just so--”

“So I can spend a week with you? Sam, what the hell is the point of having this money if I can’t use it to do things that make me happy? It’s not as if I’m tapping into it to support a drug habit, though I suppose you are fairly addictive so maybe it does qualify.”

“Josh--”

“Sam, why does this have to be a thing? I want to do something nice for both of us. Can’t we leave it at that?”

“Okay.” I feel a little weird about this though. My summer job isn’t paying much so Josh rarely lets me pay for things. It’s not as if I feel like he’s a sugar daddy but I wish I wasn’t so financially dependent on him this summer even if he doesn’t seem to mind.

“I mean it, babe -- I want to rent one of those houses. Do you think they’re already all booked through the end of the summer?”

“One way to find out.” I kiss his cheek.

***********************************************************************************************************************

“...so Josh called a few of the numbers listed in the book until he found a place that’s free the week we’re both off. It’s beachfront with a little kitchen and a porch!” I’m curled up on the sofa with the phone pressed against my ear, my mother on the other end of the line. A year after coming out to her and she’s still coming to terms with it, but I’m taking the fact that she hasn’t changed the subject yet as an invitation to talk openly about me and Josh. “It’s perfect, Mom,” I continue. “It’ll be even better than when he took me to New York for my birthday.”

“It all sounds very nice, dear.” There’s a faint current of discomfort beneath her words.

“We’re going to go down on the Saturday morning and come back the following Sunday.”

“Very nice,” she says again, not very convincingly.

“I think I’ll also use the time to teach Josh to cook. His culinary skills are limited to heating up leftovers and making toast, though he is excellent at loading and unloading the dishwasher.” The answering silence leads me to babble. “He’s really hopeless in the kitchen. Luckily he knows all the best takeout places in Washington, including this Indian place that opened up a few months ago. We went there over the weekend and they had these amazing samosas--”

“Sam?”

“Yes?”

Mom takes a deep breath. “This thing with Josh isn’t a phase, is it?”

“No, Mom, it’s not.” I rub my eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted even though it’s only 9:00. “I told you last year that I knew I was gay in the sixth grade. This is who I am, and it’s who I was for long before I met Josh.”

Another stretch of silence. “I had hoped it was a phase. I’m sure that’s not what you want to hear, but I was very scared when you told me about this last year.”

“Scared of what, exactly?”

“I--I don’t know,” she admits. “I was shocked. I thought I knew my own son. I didn’t understand how I never noticed anything.”

“What did you think you’d notice? It’s not like I danced around my bedroom wearing a glittery leotard.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic, Samuel.”

“No, no need for that at all. You can make me feel uncomfortable for a full year, make me wonder if you’ll ever accept who I am, but God forbid I get sarcastic.”

“I just sometimes wish things were different. For your sake.”

“Well, you can wish all you want. I wouldn’t want things to be different even if I could make it so. I’m happy, Mom. I spent so long pushing this down until I thought I was going to go crazy. Then I met Josh and I saw how he lived openly, without apology, and realized it didn’t have to be like that for me, that I could take that chance for myself.”

“You really love him, don’t you?”

My throat tightens. “More than anything. It’s been a year now. This isn’t some cheap fling, it’s the center of my life.”

Mom clucks her tongue. “You’re still very young, Sam.”

“You were only a year older than I am now when you met Dad.”

“It worries me that he’s older, is all I’m saying.”

“He’s four years older. Four-and-a-half years, to be exact. Honestly Mom, I don’t think you could ask for a better person with whom I could share my life. You know all about his education and his career, and I’ve told you how he makes me laugh and supports me without question. He does a thousand little things that make me happy.” I sigh. “I’m tired of having this same conversation with you every couple of weeks. Can you stop judging me and accept that I know what I’m doing? Dad accepted this months ago, why can’t you?”

“I’m trying,” she tells me haltingly. “It’s difficult.”

“It shouldn’t be,” I snap. “You know, I don’t have to come home for Christmas this year if this is going to keep up. It’s been a year. I can’t understand why you’d need any more time to get your head around this. It’s not a phase. Lying to everyone including myself, _that_ was a phase -- and it’s not one I’m going back to.”

“Alright. Well, you’ve certainly been very clear on where you stand.”

“I can’t say the same for you,” I say, not masking my bitterness. “You say you want me to be happy, and then you turn around and tell me you wish the one thing that _makes_ me happy didn’t exist. Pick a side, Mom. I don’t even think I care anymore which side you pick. I’m tired of getting whiplash from our conversations, so pick a side and stay with it.” A long pause ensues and I stare at a spot on my thigh, digging my fingers in below the hem of my boxer shorts. The tiny white crescent marks from my nails are oddly satisfying as they spring up against my skin. “Mom, are you there?”

“I...yes.” She’s crying. Great. “Tell me three things I don’t know about Josh.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Tell me three things. Things you think I should know about him.”

The tightness in my throat eases as I decode the sentiment behind her request. “Sure, I can do that. He ran track in high school and college and goes running a couple mornings a week. He can kick my butt at Pac-Man and has developed a staggeringly obnoxious victory dance to accompany his prowess.” That actually gets a laugh from Mom. “A third thing? Let me see. Oh, he has dimples. He smiles a lot, at least around me, and he has great dimples.”

“Okay. Those are good things.”

“They are.” I stare at my leg again, raking my nails over my knee. “Thank you for asking.”

***********************************************************************************************************************

“How’s your mom?”

“She’s fine.” I drop down on the bed next to the piles of laundry Josh is folding. “I’m hoping we turned a corner tonight, but it always feels like two steps forward, one step back with her.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed, for your sake.” Josh has not been shy in his harsh appraisal of my mother’s slow, reluctant path towards acceptance, and while I’ve often chafed at his tendency to be overprotective I have to admit I’m grateful for it when it comes to my mother. My phone calls with her are stressful at best and Josh is always there to help me regroup after I hang up.

“I told her about the vacation. Then she asked if this was a phase. She knew the answer but I guess she needed to hear me say it for the millionth time.”

“It’s not, right?” Josh looks at me with feigned alarm and I can’t help laughing.

“No, it’s not.”

He deftly folds three of my tee-shirts and tosses them in a drawer then moves on to pair off the random socks. “Anytime you want to help me here…”

“I cooked dinner, Josh.”

“And I washed the dishes.”

“And I gave you a fabulous blow job this morning then let you come on my face. I think we’re even.”

“Point well argued.” He folds a pair of his jeans and stuffs them in the bottom drawer, gesturing with a flourish. “Done!”

“So you never really needed my help if you were that close to being finished.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Sam.”

“Ah.” I smile and pull him down on the bed with me. “I guess this is the highlight of our Saturday night.”

“We already had our fill of drunken revelry for one weekend,” he reminds me. “I suppose we could go out to a movie.”

“Maybe tomorrow. There’s a showing of _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ at the theater in Arlington.”

“We own it on VHS.”

“Yeah, but it’s better on the big screen, and Harrison Ford…”

“...is dreamy, I know.”

“You can’t blame me for having a crush on Han Solo. I think you’re nuts for preferring Luke.”

Josh laces his fingers through mine. “You don’t see the parallels?”

“Huh?”

“I like the young idealist with wide blue eyes, and you like the seasoned hotshot with a killer grin.”

I burst out laughing. “You’ve given this a lot of thought, have you?”

“Sometimes my staff meetings are very boring. I have to find ways to amuse myself. Of course, Han and Luke never consummated their relationship despite the homoeroticism bubbling beneath its surface, which is a real tragedy for all moviegoers in my humble opinion. To be fair Leia is pretty badass, but imagine how much better it would have been for the seasoned hotshot and the young blue-eyed idealist to get together.”

Earlier, when I told my mother that Josh does a thousand little things that make me happy, I was referring to things like this. One of the first things we learned we had in common was that we are both huge Star Wars fans, and I can’t help the goofy grin on my face at the thought of Josh mapping out a comparison between the two of us and Han and Luke. It’s absurd and wonderful, and I’ll never see those movies in the same light again. “You are too much, Josh,” I tell him.

“I hope that’s a good thing.”

“It’s a very good thing.” I capture his lips with mine and relish his soft moan. “Just one question about this _Star Wars_ comparison -- does this mean that Matt is Chewbacca or Lando?”

“I can’t picture him in a cape, so we’ll go with Chewbacca. Plus, he’s a Republican so his arguments all make about as much sense as Chewbacca’s Wookiee-speak.”

“Who’s Obi-Wan?”

“Um, maybe Leo?”

“If I’m Luke, does that make my parents Darth Vader?”

The smile fades from Josh’s lips. “No...I didn’t mean...I didn’t extrapolate it that far. And hey, Vader redeems himself at the end.”

“Yeah.”

He strokes my arm with the lightest touch of fingertips. “Your dad’s been pretty good. Your mom is an idiot but she’ll get where she needs to be eventually.”

“It shouldn’t take her this long.”

“No, it absolutely should not,” he agrees. “Want me to make a voodoo doll of her and we can stick pins in it together?”

“Pass.”

“Just thought I’d ask.”

“I don’t want to talk about her. I’m sorry I brought it up again.”

“Hey, no need to apologize.” Josh gives me an easy smile, his expression open and full of affection. “Want to talk about something else?”

“How about we discuss the fact that I am going to teach you to cook if it kills me?”

“Good luck with that.”

I prop myself up on an elbow and look down at him. “Come on, Josh. What are you going to do when I go back to school?”

“Same thing I did last fall, and all the years before we met -- takeout, soup, bagels, sandwiches, cereal.”

“It’s not that difficult! I can at least teach you a few simple pasta recipes.”

“Sam, don’t.” His smile is gone, replaced by a pinched, anxious look that I’ve never seen before.

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s stupid. Just...can you accept I don’t want to learn to cook and drop it?”

“Not if it’s bothering you. What’s the deal?” I rack my brain trying to figure out what could be so upsetting about learning to cook.

“I learned to make a few dishes during my Fulbright year. I actually got pretty good at making pasta or meatloaf on Sunday nights and I’d live off the leftovers for a few days. Then there was one time I tried making this pan-seared sole and I don’t know what the fuck happened but I ended up with a grease fire and it scared me half to death.”

“Because of your sister,” I say quietly.

“Yes. So can you please do the cooking for both of us and I’ll make it up to you in some other way?”

“Given that you’re letting me live here rent-free for three months over my objections, I guess we can call it a draw.” I attempt a smile.

“Yeah.” Josh exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “Do you think I’m crazy for freaking out over that?”

“No, Josh. I think you were put through a horrible trauma when you were seven years old and if it makes things easier for you to avoid cooking then I’ll shut up and never mention it again.”

“Thanks.” He’s quiet for a few minutes and I allow the lull to last as long as he needs. “My mom hectors me about it sometimes and I never tell her the real reason. I just let her think I’m lazy or immature or whatever. It’s funny, because she’s tried to get me to talk about Joanie over the years and she tried to get me to talk about the fire when I was much younger, so it’s not like I think she’d be devastated if I opened up about this but I can’t do it.”

“It’s okay,” I say feebly, wishing I had better words for this moment.

“It’s _not_ okay!” he shoots back. “I ran out of the house, Sam! I got out and Joanie didn’t!”

“Josh…” It feels like there’s a ton of rocks sitting on my chest.

“I don’t...I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Okay. Then we won’t talk about it.” I hate feeling helpless like this. I want more than anything to get Josh to talk to me about this and I worry that pushing him to do so will backfire spectacularly. The last time I tried was a few months ago when he visited Princeton for a weekend and had a nightmare that woke both of us up. I figured out early on that Josh’s cocky exterior isn’t a facade but it does cover a hell of a lot of pain that he’s unwilling to discuss, even with me, and it tears me up when I get a glimpse at that pain only to have him pull back and seal the cracks in his armor. Swallowing hard, I decide to change the subject in the hope of salvaging the evening. “Do you still want to go to the movies tomorrow, or should I see if we can catch a show tonight?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’d like to do a practice exam tomorrow morning before we go out.”

“Sam, you’re acing all your practice exams already and the LSATs are three months away.”

“Can’t hurt to be prepared.”

“You really were a boy scout, huh?”

“Eagle Scout,” I correct him. It gets a laugh and I count that as a small victory.

“Sam Seaborn, Eagle Scout. I bet you looked pretty cute in that uniform.”

“You think I look cute in anything.”

“Well, that’s an empirical fact. I can’t claim bias.” He brushes a lock of hair out of my eyes. “Thanks, babe.”

“For what?”

“For everything, I guess.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“Sure I do.”

I lean in and give him a lingering kiss. “I love you, Josh. This is what you do when you love someone.”

“Yeah,” he says with a soft smile. “I suppose it is.”


	13. August 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey,” I cut him off. “I’ll never not want to be with you. Got that?”
> 
> Because this is Sam, his mouth opens and the first thing that pops out following my momentous declaration is, “that was a double negative.”

**JOSH POV**

The house is as advertised: blue-gray exterior, slate roof, manicured lawn, one bedroom, fully equipped kitchen, washer-dryer, cozy living room, and a narrow back porch overlooking a private beach. It’s worth every penny.

The next eight days will be the end of the line for this summer; Sam and I drove here separately because at the end of the trip he’ll decamp to Princeton for his senior year while I head back to D.C. I floated the idea of a vacation outside of Washington early in July and Sam threw himself into finding the best destination for us. Rehoboth Beach is everything we need -- perfectly situated, nice but not snobby, and extremely friendly to gay couples. In fact, the woman who owns this house only rents to gay and lesbian tenants, a bit of reverse housing discrimination that made me smile. I’ll admit that I’m not usually the beach-going type, however the idea of complete relaxation paired with the mental image of Sam stretched out under the sun in a pair of clingy swim trunks meant that this week could not come fast enough for my liking.

“This is so perfect, Josh,” Sam says for the tenth time since we walked in the front door.

“Isn’t it?” I dump my bags on the floor next to the bed and start unpacking. “You want to head down to the beach right away?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s gorgeous out, Sam, and it’s already almost noon.”

“Not yet,” he says again, putting one hand on my chest and sliding the other around to the back of my head to pull me in for a deep, wet kiss.

“Not yet,” I agree as we tumble down onto the bed together.

*********************************************************************************************************************** 

“What are you doing?” Sam’s laughter is music to my ears.

“You need help with your suntan lotion!”

“I handled the front just fine already,” he insists. “I need help with my back, not my chest!”

“Can’t hurt to have a little extra,” I insist, my fingers brushing over his pecs.

“Josh!” He elbows me and redirects my hand to his back.

“Spoilsport,” I grumble.

“I managed to get lotion on your back without groping you is all I’m saying. Now finish that so I can get down to business.”

“What am I, manual labor?”

“You’re my cabana boy,” he teases.

I kiss the side of his neck as I finish spreading lotion over his back. “There. You’re lotioned up and ready to tan.”

“Thank you.” He turns his head and kisses my cheek.

I shake my head fondly and unpack my sandwich and some reading material while Sam arranges himself in what I suppose is an optimal tanning position, on his back with his lounge chair fully reclined, his arms lying at the sides. “You are such a California boy, you know that?”

“I _am_ from California, Josh. What else would I be?”

“Well, if you’re expecting me to get a healthy glow or whatever the hell you call it, don’t expect too much. I’m from New England and my kind don’t tan like you.”

“Just don’t burn and I’ll be satisfied.”

“You slathered so much lotion on me that burning does not seem like a possibility.”

“Mmm.” Sam sighs and melts even further into the chair. He is the very picture of relaxation, so much so that I grab my camera and take a quick photo. “Josh Lyman, did you just photograph me unaware?” he asks, not bothering to open his eyes.

“I did do that, yes.” I take another picture. “Now I’m done.” I can’t help it, he looks amazing lying there wearing nothing more than a perfectly cut pair of navy blue swim shorts that contrast perfectly against his sun-dappled skin. I’m not a religious man but lying here next to Sam watching the waves thunder against the shore under a cloudless azure sky feels an awful lot like heaven to me.

“What are you reading?” Sam asks after a few minutes.

“How do you know I’m reading?”

“I can hear you turning the pages,” he says in that ‘you’re-such-a-moron-Josh’ voice he wields a little too deftly for my liking.

“Oh. Um, I’m reading a briefing memo on--”

“Josh,” he groans.

“It’s on early childhood education! It’s an important subject!”

Sam sits up and grabs the notebook filled with briefing memos from my hands and shoves it into our tote bag. “Nope.”

“I need to read that!”

“Not at the beach.”

“You packed that advance coursework for your thesis,” I argue.

“Yes, and it’s back at the house. We can each set aside a few hours this week to do work but it’s sure as hell not going to be when we’re lying here only one hour after we arrived.”

“So what am I supposed to do without anything else to read?” I’m whining now. So sue me.

“ _Relax_ , Josh. You’re supposed to relax.” Sam closes his eyes again.

I watch the motion of the waves for a while, willing myself to stop thinking about work or anything else not happening right here on this beach. I reach across to Sam’s chair, brushing our fingers together and a smile tugs at my mouth as he slips his hand into mine. Yeah, I could get the hang of this whole relaxation thing.

*********************************************************************************************************************** 

The arrangement we worked out in advance was that since I’m covering the cost of the beach house Sam will pay for all our food, drinks, and any other miscellaneous expenses. It was hard enough to convince him that I didn’t need him to chip in for rent this summer, and I know it’s awkward for him to be unable to contribute a lot. Aside from covering his tuition, Sam’s parents don’t toss money at him -- he’s too proud to ask anyway, especially given the uncertainty surrounding his current relationship with his mom -- and the summer gig at the ACLU is not what I’d call a living wage. When he found out about my trust fund he joked that I’m his sugar daddy but I could tell he was uneasy about it; although there’s only a few years between us, Sam still worries that I see him as a kid and I’m sure that having me support him for the past three months hasn’t helped that anxiety. So when I suggested that Sam could pull his weight in Rehoboth by covering everything aside from the rental fee, he jumped at the chance to shell out whatever he could from his savings to achieve a level of parity. I once read that one of the leading causes of relationships ending is strife over financial issues and I’ve kept that in mind as I try to navigate this issue; to be honest I think we’ve both done an excellent job at coming to terms with how to handle it.

Luckily for Sam’s bank account, my taste in grub is not very snobby. Sure, I enjoyed the cozy pub we dined at the first night in town, and the Chinese place we went to on the second night was terrific as well, and the pizzeria on night three was perfect. But on night four we end up at a burger shack on the beach with the best goddamned French fries I have ever had, and it’s better than the first three restaurants put together. The whole tab costs Sam less than ten bucks and we both decide it’s the best dining establishment for my tastes and his budget; when the next day rolls around he suggests we have lunch there and I readily agree. It helps that it’s only a five-minute walk from our spot on the beach and we’ve become exceptionally lazy as the vacation progresses; even sex has become blissfully languid.

Sam’s fidgeting as we finish our cheeseburgers and fries on a picnic bench outside the burger shack and my eyebrows raise in suspicion. It’s a running joke that I have a bad poker face, which I grant is true, however Sam is totally unable to hide stuff from me despite the fact he’s usually adept at doing so around other people. And this fidgeting? It’s definitely not a mere byproduct of having too much free time on his hands this week.

“I’ve been thinking,” he begins, dipping a fry in ketchup and then setting it back down in the carton.

“Uh-oh. That’s never a good way to start a conversation, is it?” I ask, keeping my voice light even as my pulse starts to quicken.

“No, it’s nothing bad!” Sam hastens to assure me. “Well, I mean, I guess I don’t know how you’ll feel about it, but it’s not like -- I’m not breaking up with you or anything.”

“Ah-kay,” I laugh nervously. “I didn’t think you were going to do that.”

“I’m not!”

“Ah-kay,” I say again. “Want to start over?”

“Yes, please.” Sam takes a deep breath. “I’m taking the LSATs in October but I’m not going to apply to law school for next fall.”

I wait for the other shoe to drop then realize that’s his whole announcement and I let out a huge sigh of relief. “That’s it?”

“Well, yeah! It’s kind of a big deal for me, Josh!”

“I didn’t mean that it’s not a big deal. But you’d already hinted at that a few times in the past year. In one of your letters you said you’d see how you felt after another summer working in Washington, and that was a good nine or ten months ago, so I assumed it was something you’d been kicking around in your head when you worked at the ACLU this summer.”

He nods and relaxes, still not touching his food. I grab the ketchup-dipped fry he’s neglecting and he snorts with laughter. “You have your own fries.”

“That one needed some love and attention.” I reach across the table and take his hand. “You’re sure about this?”

“Very sure. I want to work with policy somehow, even if it’s a low-level job on the Hill or at some NGO. Law school will still be there a year or two after I graduate if I decide I still want that, but I enjoyed what I did this summer even though it was the kind of writing I could do in my sleep because I loved the idea that it was one small part in an organization that really makes a positive difference in people’s lives.” Ah Sam, my sweet idealist. There is not one ounce of condescension in that appraisal, by the way. I love that he cares so much, even though it means he bruises more easily than I do; I love that he keeps me honest when I start to list toward the irredeemably cynical end of the spectrum. “After a few years I’ll either know it’s right for me and stick with it despite not getting a J.D. or I’ll go to law school so I have the right pedigree and circle back to D.C. afterwards.”

“It sounds like you have it all worked out,” I say with a smile. “Why were you so nervous to tell me this?”

“Because I thought maybe -- and we don’t have to do this! -- but I thought I could live with you. And I’d chip in for rent this time. Like, we could live together.” The sheer earnestness on his face, blue eyes wide and his whole expression open and hopeful, makes me fall in love all over again.

“Sam, did you think I wouldn’t want that?” I ask, flabbergasted.

“I don’t know!”

“We lived together for two summers in a row.”

“This is different. I’m making an assumption that you’ll still want to live with me when I finish college nine months from now. We haven’t talked about any future plans and--”

“Hey,” I cut him off. “I’ll never not want to be with you. Got that?”

Because this is Sam, his mouth opens and the first thing that pops out following my momentous declaration is, “that was a double negative.”

“Sam!”

“Sorry, sorry.” He ducks his head and avoids looking at me. “You mean that?”

“Yes, I absolutely do. I want to be with you no matter what happens.” I say the words blithely but my heart is thundering in my ears. Sam’s right, we haven’t talked about the future in anything other than limited terms -- when we’ll visit each other after he returns to college, if he wants to spend Thanksgiving in Connecticut with my family this year, and so on.

He lets my hand drop and my heart plummets to my feet. That was too much too fast, he’s only 21 and what the hell am I doing turning a discussion about where he’ll live next year into a declaration of undying love? “Come on, I’m done with my food. Let’s go back to the beach.” He stands abruptly and dumps our trays in the garbage, grabbing the tote bag on the way back and leaving me to scramble to catch up with him.

“Sure, okay,” I say, my head spinning. I wouldn’t take back the words if my life depended on it but his reaction is terrifying me.

The walk back to our beach chairs seems to last forever. For once Sam is able to keep his emotions from showing up in his eyes and I can’t tell if he’s upset or scared or joyful; by the time we reach our little plot of Rehoboth Beach I’m thinking that maybe now he _is_ going to break up with me after all. He pushes me into one of the chairs and sits down on the sand in front of me instead of settling into the other chair. “Josh, I--”

“I fucked everything up, didn’t I?” I ask miserably.

“What?!”

“I freaked you out and--”

“Josh!” His carefully applied mask of neutrality shatters and I see in an instant more sheer love and joy on his face than I’ve ever seen before. “You did not fuck _anything_ up! I didn’t mean to make you think…” He laughs suddenly, the sound dancing in the sea breeze surrounding us. “I didn’t want to talk about this at a burger joint surrounded by a hundred other tourists, that’s all. God, you thought I was upset? Josh,” he whispers again, launching himself at me for a kiss that I know I will always remember. Sam tastes like ketchup and Diet Coke and smells of suntan lotion, and his hands are everywhere -- on my cheek, in my hair, sliding over my bicep. “You meant what you said back there?”

I need a second to regain my power of speech after that kiss. “I meant it more than I’ve ever meant anything in my life.”

“You want to be with me no matter what happens?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice quavering. Goddamnit, don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry. The smile on his face is blinding and I know without a shadow of the doubt that everything I feel for him, everything I feel for us is reflected in his own heart.

“You want to be with me always?”

“Sam!” I exclaim. “I’d _marry_ you if I could!”

The words are out before I can process what I’m saying. I’d marry him if I could. I would, I realize. I’ve never put it in those terms even in my head, because why torture myself by dwelling on an impossibility like that? But I meant everything I said to him today, and I meant that last statement above all. If I could take legally binding vows that would unite me with Samuel Norman Seaborn I would do it right now on this beach. The ebullience on Sam’s face has softened and he looks at me with such exquisite tenderness that I can’t help but kiss him until we’re both breathless.

“You proposed to me,” he whispers.

“In a manner of speaking. It’s not like we can actually get married.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to think about that part of it. I know we can’t. But you asked me anyway.”

“Yes, I did,” I say, the edges of my vision blurring again.

Sam places his hands on either side of my face and kisses me with the barest brush of his lips over mine. “I’m saying yes, Josh.”

Each of my hands clasps one of his wrists and I answer his kiss with another of my own. “So we’re what, exactly?”

“We’re committed to one another. You’re still my boyfriend and I’m yours, because I don’t know what other term we can use.”

“Partners?”

Sam wrinkles his nose. “Sounds like we own a business together.”

“Boyfriend is a little juvenile.”

“And that doesn’t describe you in the slightest,” he jokes, dropping another kiss at the corner of my mouth. “You’re my boyfriend, my love, my everything.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He’s going to hate what I say next but I need to be sure he’s sure. “You’re only 21 years old.”

Amazingly he laughs. “And you’re only 25. Josh, when you look at me do you think you’ll grow out of feeling the way you do right now?”

“No.”

“Good, because neither do I. You’re it for me.”

“Love at first sight,” I tease gently.

“It was,” Sam says with a blush. “I love you, Josh.”

“Love you, too.”

We don’t need to say anything else.

*********************************************************************************************************************** 

“We’re going to come back here, right?” Sam asks hopefully as I refill his wine glass. It’s our last night in Rehoboth Beach and my extraordinary boyfriend -- boyfriend, life partner, soulmate, whatever the hell you want to call him -- cooked shrimp fra diavolo over spaghetti and we’ve spent the evening on the porch watching the sunset and lingering over dinner.

“You bet your cute ass we will.”

“Ah Josh, you always slay me with the heart-stopping romance,” he sighs.

“Hey, I brought the heart-stopping romance big-time this week.”

Sam beams and clinks his glass against mine. “You really did.”

“This week was perfect.”

“It was. And we have to come back here.”

“Ah-kay, so we’ll come back next summer.” I frown when he shakes his head. “You want to come back but not next summer?”

“We should do this, like, every five years. So it doesn’t get routine and we don’t take it for granted.”

“You’ve thought this through?”

“Yeah. We’ll come back in August of ‘90 and August of ‘95 and August of 2000 and so on. Maybe we won’t be able to rent this particular house but we can still hang out at the beach, and if that burger place is still around as the years go by we can laugh about how you actually thought I was upset when you said you wanted to be with me forever.”

“And how I used a double negative,” I add.

“The fact that I’ll laugh about that goes without saying.” He smirks over the top of his wine glass before taking a lingering sip.

“You’re way too mean to me, Sam.”

“Yet you still asked me to marry you.”

“Technically, I didn’t. Technically, I said I would marry you. It was not, strictly speaking, a proposal.”

“You’re hanging your hat on your use of the conditional tense?”

“Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it?” I polish off my own glass and return his smirk.

“I might deny you sex.” My snort of disbelief indicates my faith in Sam’s ability to carry out that threat, and he narrows his eyes in response. “You don’t think I’d do that?”

“On your last night before driving to campus and not seeing me for two whole weeks? No, I don’t think you’d do that.”

“Pretty confident in your ability to seduce me there, Mr. Lyman.”

“Your track record speaks for itself, Mr. Seaborn.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation then Sam admits, “I suppose it does. Help me bring the dishes inside and then I want you to take me to bed.”

Hell, I’m not going to turn down that offer. To be honest, I’ve lost track of the precise number of times I’ve achieved orgasm in the past week. Sam and I have had a few marathon sessions in the bedroom of the beach house that wrested climax after climax from both of us, the highlight of which was Wednesday’s mind-blowing three-times-in-one-day celebration after we committed ourselves permanently to this relationship. His track record in letting me do whatever I want to him does speak for itself, though so does my track record of wanting to put my hands all over him at any given time. I tease him about his shamelessness but the truth is I’m at least as shameless when it comes to needing him. It’s been that way since the first time he kissed me.

After a cursory rinse-and-dry of the dishes, Sam literally drags me into the bedroom and pushes me onto the unmade bed. I lick dry lips and watch him strip off his tee-shirt and shorts, and moan softly as his cock springs up, already half-hard. Sam’s developed this habit of going commando while we’re here and I have no intention of dissuading him from doing that the next time we make this trip. He slides onto his knees at the foot of the bed and yanks my shorts and boxers down to my ankles, wrapping his lips around my dick and sucking it until it surges to full hardness under his expert ministrations. Just as I’m beginning to lose myself in the perfection of his mouth he pulls away, a string of saliva connecting his bottom lip to my leaking cockhead.

“Finish undressing,” he orders.

“Wha...huh?”

“Finish undressing.” He grabs the bottle of lubricant and stands there waiting, one eyebrow raised to convey his impatience. I can’t imagine I look very graceful as I wrestle my clothes off – and I do mean wrestle, after my arm somehow gets trapped in my tee-shirt and I almost dislocate my shoulder trying to remove the offending garment – but Sam merely smiles and straddles me once I’m naked. Pouring lubricant over his fingers, he shocks the hell out of me by grasping my erection and smearing the slickness over my flesh. “I don’t need prep.”

“You do!” I protest. It’s not ego to point out that my cock is very large; no matter what I’ve always prepped him or watched him do it himself.

“No, I want it like this. Trust me, I know what I can handle.”

“Sam -- oh God, Sam.” My argument is obliterated when he hovers over my cock and slides down, controlling the penetration with slow and deliberate movements. His ass is gloriously tight and I have to hold my breath and count to ten to avoid losing whatever is left of my control and ramming up into him and coming immediately.

“I want to feel it tomorrow, Josh,” he whispers. He finally has my entire cock lodged in him, the firm globes of his ass settled on my thighs. “I’ve got a long drive to Princeton and the whole time I’ll be thinking about how amazing it was to have you filling me completely, stretching me until I feel like I might pass out from the pleasure.”

My hands settle on his narrow hips, seeking contact rather than guiding, and I allow Sam to set the pace when he begins to ride me. He’s unfathomably gorgeous to me -- his skin is tanned to golden perfection after a week here, his whipcord strength and soft mouth and high cheekbones all combining to give the impression of a work of art come to life. Hell, I know how cheesy that sounds. I bet Sam would make it sound a lot more poetic than I can, but he’s too busy fucking himself on my dick to help me string together paeans to his beauty.

“You’re so beautiful,” I tell him in a low voice. “I wish I had the words.”

He smiles beatifically and speeds up his movements, his ass clenching around me on almost every slide down my erection. Leaning forward slightly, he braces a hand on my chest and loses all semblance of restraint as he rides my cock with abandon, grunting as my fingers dig into his hips to allow me to thrust hard into his quivering hole. “God, Josh!” he yells, twisting and bucking above me. His cock is oozing precome and I reach up to smear it around the head before sucking my fingers clean.

“Come for me, babe.” My hand returns to his erection, jerking it with erratic strokes as my own composure crumbles before the sensation of his hot, tight hole caressing my dick.

Sam cries out and slams down on my cock, a shout of my name echoing off the walls as he reaches his climax. With enormous effort I lift his spent body off of me and roll him onto his back; one hand spreads his legs apart so I can sink back into him, and the other, much stickier hand dangles over his mouth. His lips part in a gasp when I penetrate him again and he leans up to suck my fingers into his mouth, lapping up the streaks of cum and keeping his eyes fixed on my face. I mutter something unintelligible, a mix of curse words and Sam’s name, and thrust deep into his body, spending myself inside him with a hoarse cry. Sam wraps his arms around me, stroking my back and kissing my temple as my cock slips out and I try to catch my breath.

“You okay?” I ask a minute later, still breathless.

“Huh?”

I realize my face is smushed against his chest, making it difficult for Sam to hear me. I lift my head and smile. “You okay?”

“I am _so_ much better than okay.” Sam touches his lips to mine. “I told you, I know what I can handle.”

“Can’t blame me for making sure.”

“Josh, you’d never hurt me. If it’d been too much, I would have said something. And what would you have done?”

“I’d stop immediately.”

“Right. You were worried about nothing.” He brushes my unruly hair with his fingers, then gives up on trying to tame it. “So tomorrow…”

“Yeah.”

“I guess I should leave by 10:00.”

“10:00 p.m.?” I joke weakly.

“I wish.” Sam nudges my ankle with his foot and spares me a smile. “You’re visiting in two weeks. Not that far away.”

“Yeah.” I’m trying not to sulk.

“One more year, Josh. Not even a full year, actually.”

“It’s still too long.”

“You made it through the last year.”

“Barely.” I thread my fingers through his hair and draw him in for a kiss.

“One more year,” he says again. “Then you get me all to yourself. Think you can manage that?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I guess I can.”

We both know that this is a temporary separation and we’ve done this before; that doesn’t make it any easier. I think back to our first night together and how I was certain I’d fuck it up after I finished with the easy part of getting Sam in my bed. I’d spent so many years sleeping around and he’d spent so many years petrified to have any kind of relationship with another guy that we were both feeling our way in the dark until he said with the kind of quiet confidence I adore so much that we’d figure this out together. It hasn’t always been easy but he was right. We found our way to a little slice of heaven in Rehoboth Beach where we pledged ourselves to each other with vows that were as heartfelt as they were spontaneous, and whatever comes next we’re going to be together. Always.


	14. September-December 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “P.S. It started snowing about an hour ago. They say D.C. will get six inches tonight. (Insert joke about how if you were here you’d get 8½ inches tonight.)”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In “Somebody’s Going To Emergency, Somebody’s Going To Jail” it’s revealed that Sam wrote his Princeton undergraduate thesis on Daniel Gault. In this universe his thesis topic is something else entirely.  
> \- For those unfamiliar with baseball, Keith Hernandez was a star player in the 1980s. (As a lifelong Yankees fan it pains me that Josh roots for the Mets.)

Sunday, September 1, 1985

Sam,

As per the results of our coin toss this morning, I am writing the first letter. I got home about an hour ago and after I unpacked and scavenged for food I decided to get this show on the road. The interesting thing (at least it’s interesting to me) is that I find myself self-conscious about what I’m writing. When we started doing this last year I didn’t plan on saving everything you sent me. It just kind of happened. I could never bring myself to throw any of your letters away, even the short, inconsequential ones. When I found out you felt the same about what I sent to you, it made me feel like I had to make my letters mean more than some mundane recitation of the shit in my life.

I can practically hear you saying, “Josh, I wouldn’t care if your letter is all about baseball and the weather, I’d still keep it if it came from you.” Because I know you and you say things like that and you really mean it. Still, you deserve something special to kick off a new season of letters, so I’ve decided to give you a short list of things I love about you. It’s hardly an exhaustive catalogue; if I felt so inclined I could probably come up with five hundred things and write a multi-page single-spaced essay about each one. But that might be a little much, even for us.

1- Your fearlessness. I know you get afraid sometimes, I know you take defeats as crushing personal setbacks, but you always get back up again. You stood up to your parents. You refused to let those assholes on campus make you back down from being who you are. I remember how scared you were when we met and to think of how far you’ve come since then is awe-inspiring. I wasn’t sure when you’d be ready to come out, and when you said you were ready only a month after we started being _us_ it blew me away. You never once retreated from that position, no matter the crap that was hurled your way. You’re tough as hell; I know you don’t see yourself that way but it’s true.

2- Your voice. I could listen to you talk for hours, and I _have_ listened to you talk for hours, as evidenced by my phone bill for the last two semesters. You could read the phone book and it would sound like poetry to me. I love how you say my name -- especially those times when you’re annoyed with me but the affection bleeds through nonetheless, it’s got this special inflection that I adore. Don’t ask me to explain it. Oh, and how you sound when I’m inside you. Just thinking about that is enough to make me hard. Best of all is how your voice sounds when you say you love me. It’s always said in this gentle way that is far more powerful than yelling it from the rooftops ever could be. You know how you say I have a bad poker face? Sam, your voice is your tell. At least it is for me. I don’t know how you do it, but you infuse your voice with everything you feel. I get to hear this whole symphony of your emotions every time we speak and it takes my breath away.

3- Your nerdiness. You are a huge nerd, Sam. You consider _Bulfinch’s Mythology_ a light summer read. You sing Gilbert  & Sullivan in the shower, you research etymology for fun, and you are trying to figure out a way to learn Elvish. You own two thesauri and four dictionaries. You bought a set of placemats for our kitchen that has a map of the constellations and then you set about explaining to me exactly what the constellations mean in mythological terms and the optimal time of year to see each of them. You are a huge nerd and it is fucking adorable.

4- Your face. I’m allowed to be shallow every once in a while. You’re gorgeous, and I don’t think you have any clue the effect it has on me. There are so many tiny moments when you look at me when we’re doing something routine, like changing the sheets or arguing over the remote control, and I have another holy-shit-how-the-hell-did-I-end-up-with-this-gorgeous-guy moment. I won’t write a sonnet about your face, because we both know it would end up as unintentional comedy; what I will do is simply tell you that you are gorgeous beyond words. My heart has done so many flips over your beauty that it could be a professional gymnast by now. I love looking at your face. (And by the way, the rest of the package is pretty spectacular, too. But if I don’t stop this list now I’m going to end up with one hell of a writer’s cramp.)

I’ll sign off now. One last thing -- the bed seems to have quadrupled in size now that you’re not here to share it and it’s not the best feeling to lie there alone. Miss you already.

Josh

***********************************************************************************************************************

 

Sunday, September 8, 1985

Josh,

You are not allowed to make me cry right out of the gate like that. I was having such a tough week on Friday when your letter arrived and it was so bittersweet to read what you sent me. The list was amazing, Josh. I don’t mean that to sound conceited (“hey, look at these flattering things my boyfriend wrote about me!”). It’s just that my first week back was a trainwreck and I needed something to buck me up before I went off the deep end, then I checked my mail and saw the envelope from you, and I knew whatever you wrote me would make things better. It did.

Dr. Goldberg, my thesis advisor, is far more exacting than he let on when I spoke with him last semester. He’s second-guessing everything and his criticism is hardly constructive. Goldberg is by far the most revered and brilliant mind in the Poli Sci department, and he’s picky about who he advises so it’s flattering that he chose to work with me, but it’s not fun to have him tear apart all my arguments every time we meet. So that made my first week back pretty unbearable. It didn’t help that I slept through the first of my early morning seminars on _Beowulf_ , or that I dropped a volume of the _Encyclopedia Brittanica_ on my foot in the library on Thursday and have been hobbling around like an idiot for the past three days. Or that my Aunt Jeannie called me last night to say I should stop sleeping with men because I’m going to get AIDS. That was a fun conversation.

I want to write my own list for you. I just can’t right now. I’m already exhausted after one week and I miss you so much that if I start writing down all the reasons I love you I might get in my car and drive down to Washington and not look back. As appealing as that may sound, I doubt it’d be the best idea in the long run. I really thought this year would be easier to deal with in terms of missing you; after all, we got through last year and now the finish line is almost within reach. But the juxtaposition of committing to spend our lives together against getting in separate cars at the end of our beach trip and driving to separate places is hurting far more than I expected.

I’m sorry this is such a depressing letter. I miss you a lot. You’ll probably be visiting me already by the time this hits your mailbox, and I can’t wait to see you then.

Love,

Sam

P.S. I know what you mean about beds seeming too big now that we’re sleeping apart. I promise never to complain again about how you hog the covers or snore. It’s crappy falling asleep without you.

***********************************************************************************************************************

 

Tuesday, September 17, 1985

Dear Sam,

You’re right, I didn’t get your letter until after I got back from Princeton on Sunday night. I wish I could find words that would magically make things better for you. Your aunt is a fucking idiot who will get an earful from me if I ever meet her. Don’t let the assholes get you down.

I spent last night reading the rough draft you’ve sketched for your thesis and I think it’s really solid. As requested, I made a couple of notes and I’m enclosing them with this letter. It’s minor shit, nothing that would affect the tone or structure of what you’ve got so far. But I’ll be honest, Sam -- I read this and it came across as far more bloodless than your usual work. Your arguments about the perils of strict constructionism are well thought-out and I love the section on James Madison, but I couldn’t find your voice anywhere in the draft. Like I said, what you have so far is solid. You’re better than ‘solid.’

Make your own list for me whenever you’re ready, or don’t make a list. It’s not quid pro quo. I simply wanted to write down a few of the reasons you mean the world to me.

Josh

***********************************************************************************************************************

Sunday, September 22, 1985

Josh,

You’re right about the thesis draft not having enough of my voice. That was the primary complaint Dr. Goldberg had as well. I’m redrafting it entirely and shifting my focus. It’s a Hail Mary to do so at this point but I’m feeling a lot better about what I’m writing and I hope Goldberg thinks I can pull it off. He asked me to define why I wanted to focus on the dangers of strict constructionism in the first place and then find the argument I really want to make instead of rehashing old talking points about James Madison.

So here’s what I’m doing now: I’ve been up for the past 32 hours restructuring my argument and poring over my research material until I put together a five-page framework for a thesis positing that the fourteenth amendments contains the basis for granting marriage equality based on gender and sexual orientation. I’m extrapolating some of my argument from the _Loving v. Virginia_ decision, and I’m also arguing that granting marriage to gay and lesbian couples would be a fundamentally conservative decision as it upholds a commitment to long-term monogamous relationships. There’s virtually no formal scholarship on this issue that I can find. The academic writings about gay and lesbian relationships, both within and without the queer community, focus more on the psychological and sociological aspects than the legal ones.

I’m mindful of what happened last year when I worked with the GLSA to get Stonewall into the curriculum and was shot down. You told me I’d learn from that experience and use it to bolster my next fight. The lesson I took away from the Stonewall proposal is that Princeton is not ready to listen to my arguments if they’re presented as part of that mysterious “gay agenda” people freak out about. What I have to do is write this in terms that are explicitly not personal; I have to find a way to let my voice come through without making this about me. Some of these men and women on the faculty put the ‘phobia’ in ‘homophobia’ so this will be about Constitutional merits and not a social agenda. I have no illusions that you and I will walk down the aisle in the next few years or the next decade or even the next twenty years. I do believe it’ll happen one day. I have to believe eventually other people will listen to the kinds of arguments I’ll put down on paper and come around to the position that our love is as deserving of protection as anyone else’s. I have to believe that, Josh. The alternative is too painful to think about. I want to marry you one day. I want it to be real, not some extralegal commitment ceremony that nobody respects. I suppose this thesis is as good a place as any to start.

I love you endlessly,

Sam

***********************************************************************************************************************

Saturday, September 28, 1985

Sam,

It’s a bit absurd to write you a letter when you’re sleeping in the next room, but I’m doing it anyway. By the time your letter arrived today you were already here for the weekend; you’d told me about your shift in thesis subjects, and showed me the new outline. You’d exulted about how your advisor is championing the new subject despite -- or perhaps because of -- its controversial nature and has even eased up on his critical take on your work. But the letter? I get to save that. I get to add that to our pile and pull it out years from now. I couldn’t record that moment in Rehoboth Beach when I proposed marriage and you accepted. What I _can_ do is keep the words you sent me on neatly lined notebook paper in your impeccable handwriting saying that you not only want to marry me but you absolutely have faith that one day you _will_ marry me. I have to believe in that too, Sam. I have to believe that one day I’ll wave that letter around and tell everyone who will listen that you wanted to fight a fight that nobody else did even if it was ‘only’ an undergraduate thesis. Maybe that day won’t come for thirty or forty years, but it will come.

I’m going to run outside and mail this. Then I’ll head back to bed, wake you up, and make love to you. You’re only here for another sixteen hours and I’ve got to make the most of it.

Josh

P.S. You should mail a copy of the finished thesis to Anita Bryant. Maybe we can make her head explode.

***********************************************************************************************************************

Friday, October 4, 1985

Josh,

I am so happy you woke me up after you mailed that letter. Saturday was a very, very enjoyable night. Sunday morning was also a lot of fun. We should really find more ways to incorporate 69s into our sex life.

My biggest challenge this week has been finding a birthday gift for you. Do you know how difficult you are to shop for? I recognize that turning 26 isn’t a milestone, however I still want to find the perfect token of my feelings to give to you. I managed to get something I hope you’ll like and I mailed it yesterday.

Sam

***********************************************************************************************************************

Thursday, October 10, 1985

Sam,

You _hoped_ I’d like your birthday gift? How could I not have liked it? Forget liking it – you had to know I’d love it! I’m not even going to ask how you got a baseball signed by Keith Hernandez wishing me a happy birthday; just promise me it didn’t require providing sexual favors.

Josh

***********************************************************************************************************************

Friday, October 18, 1985

Josh,

Like I’d give sexual favors to anyone other than you. You totally ruined me for all other men.

I still owe you a list. Consider this an extra birthday gift:

1- Your passion. The first time we met when I was working for McHenry, you went on this mini-rant about how much you disdained his politics and tactics, and to be honest I got kind of weak at the knees from it. Weird turn-on, I know; and soon enough I’d realize your little speech that day was a mild one compared to some of the other things you’ve said when you get worked up. You say I’m idealistic and I’ll cop to that, however you’re idealistic in your own way and you sell yourself short by not recognizing it. You could have taken a well-paying private sector job when you finished law school, and instead you chose to work as a public servant; you could have easily found employment with dozens of Congressmen and you chose to work for a man who serves the public good, not some empty suit who follows public opinion rather than his conscience. You may be cynical about politics but you are not cynical about policy; you play the game because you know that if you make the right moves you’ll assist in changing people’s lives for the better. You don’t look at the world through rose-colored lenses; you are clear-eyed and your intent is true. And you care so deeply that sometimes it expresses itself in bursts of emphatic judgment peppered with profanity, and an overwhelmed intern who wandered into your office can’t help but fall in love.

2- Your devotion. Remember how you were convinced you had no clue how to be a good boyfriend when we started down this road? Like I’ve said several times, you’re an idiot but you’re my idiot. For every one time you say something stupid, there are a hundred times when you do things large and small that make my world immeasurably better. The first time you said you loved me, I knew you meant it. Every time you’ve said it since, I know you’ve meant it. You don’t throw the words around as a Band-Aid, and you show me you love me even more than you tell me. You introduced me to your parents after only six weeks of dating, and you’ve stood by me as I’ve sorted through my own parents’ reactions to my coming out. If I have a bad day I know all I have to do is pick up the phone and you’ll make it better. You always make things better.

3- Your face. What, you thought this was one-sided? Do you have any idea whatsoever how much your smile makes _me_ smile? Sometimes you give me these soft, almost secret little smiles that you don’t give anyone else and it makes me all but fall apart. Sometimes you shoot me that wide, cocky grin that makes me want to lay down on the nearest available surface and beg you to fuck me every which way imaginable. You have such beautiful eyes, eyes that reflect your laughter and intensity and love. You have these adorable little ears and perfect, soft lips. I’m including your hair in this package and I know you laugh at that, because you think your hair is ridiculous. It _is_ ridiculous -- an untamed riot of straight and curly mixed together, color shifting between auburn and coffee-brown depending on the light. I never get tired of watching you run your hands through it when you’re bored or frustrated, making it stick up in every direction and practically begging for me to put it back in place with my own touch. I love to look at you.

4- Your passion. I’m not being repetitive; this is a different kind of passion. What I’m talking about here is how you make me come completely undone -- and how you make me come, period. I’m talking about how you hold me down and kiss every inch of me except my cock until I’m outright begging for you to do something, _anything_ , and then you swoop down and swallow me whole and let me come down your throat. Or how you arrange me on my hands and knees and pin me under your solid weight, shoving your dick into me and fucking me so hard I can barely remember my own name. Or how you take my balls in your mouth, sucking and licking gently to get me worked up, then guide my hand to my erection while you kiss my hole and push your tongue up inside me, and when I’m done bringing myself off you lap up my load from my stomach and give me a perfectly filthy kiss at the exact moment you come on my thighs. The things you do to me, Josh…

Love you, miss you.

Sam

***********************************************************************************************************************

Thursday, October 24, 1985

Sam,

ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?!?!?!

Josh

***********************************************************************************************************************

Saturday, November 2, 1985

Josh,

I’m hoping to keep you around for the next half-century or so. Killing you would be counterproductive. You sound a bit frustrated. Maybe you need to jerk off more? And you should call me whenever you jerk off. Definitely call me.

Sam

***********************************************************************************************************************

Thursday, November 7, 1985

Sam,

Next half-century, huh? That’s fine by me.

Brennan took me to lunch today. It was surreal -- he asked all these questions about my career plans and wanted my opinion on a half dozen issues ranging from gun control to welfare reform. He said he knows I’m going to start getting other offers soon because my profile has risen significantly since he was appointed head of the Caucus, and that he hopes I know that he recognizes the excellent work I’ve done (his words, not mine). He said if I stick with him he’ll make sure my loyalty pays off. While he didn’t go into specifics, he left the impression that he has a trajectory in mind for me and once I get a little more experience he’ll help me find my way down that path. You were correct when you called him “a man who serves the public good.” He’s absolutely one of the very few real deals in this town and it’s thrilling to know he’s taken note of what I’m doing on behalf of his legislative agenda. How many people get to say they love what they do? I _love_ what I do.

On another note, my mother will be calling you to discuss what dish you would like to cook for Thanksgiving dinner. It’s three full weeks away but she’s very meticulous about this whole process. In fact, the only person I know who’s more meticulous than my mother is you, which probably explains why you two get along so well. You’re both meticulous and you both love making fun of me. You do realize she’s going to show you all of my embarrassing baby pictures when you visit, right? You laugh at me, you die.

Josh

***********************************************************************************************************************

Wednesday, November 13, 1985

Josh,

You always say I’m going to change the world and I always have to remind you we’re going to do it together. It’s nice to see the Congressman appreciates your brilliance and dedication. I always knew he was a smart man.

Your mother is not messing around with this Thanksgiving dinner. I have to respect that level of discipline. For your information, I will be making the yams and the cranberry sauce. It sounds like she’s planning way too much food for a dinner that’s only going to be attended by me, you, and your parents, however if she’s as good a cook as you say she is I am going to trust that she knows what she’s doing and plan on delicious leftovers.

Speaking of holidays and parents, I am still not over my shock that my parents invited you to come home with me for Christmas. I spoke to my dad about it again last night and he confessed it was his idea; he’s hoping it will help my mom if she meets you. She’s been better about this of late but you and I both know she’s still not at the stage of full acceptance. If you don’t want to go it’s really okay with me. The whole thing smacks of being an experiment and you don’t need to spend four days in California as a guinea pig while Dad and I try to get my mom to be a decent human being. I suppose we’ll talk about this some more. There are a few weeks left before you need to commit one way or the other so they can get you a plane ticket. It makes me nervous because there are so many ways this could go horribly wrong. But please don’t think my apprehension is because I want to keep you stashed three thousand miles away. My dad sounds genuinely eager to meet you and that’s worth something. It’s the other parental unit I’m freaked out about.

Sam

***********************************************************************************************************************

Thursday, November 21, 1985

Sam,

Never in a million years would it cross my mind that you would want to keep me stashed three thousand miles away. Come on, you know me better than to think I’d jump to that conclusion. I’ve watched over the past year as you’ve handled your mother’s bullshit with extraordinary maturity and strength. Like I told you on the phone, I want to go to California so she can see that you’re happy with me, that you’re happy in your own skin. Even after a year I’m probably nothing more than a vague concept to her -- the ‘older man’ who swept in and corrupted her only son. No matter how many times you tell her good things about what we have, she’s not going to process it until it’s staring her in the face. Of course this could go off the rails and get all fucked up, but it’s worth the risk if there’s any chance it’ll put an end this nasty little tango of now-I-accept-this-and-now-I-don’t that she’s got going on. The fact that she’s okay with your dad’s idea, even the part where they pay for my airfare both ways, is a good sign.

Josh

P.S. It started snowing about an hour ago. They say D.C. will get six inches tonight. (Insert joke about how if you were here you’d get 8½ inches tonight.) One of these days I’m going to make you explain how you can hate cold weather and love snow. That makes no fucking sense.

***********************************************************************************************************************

Sunday, December 1, 1985

Josh,

Back from Thanksgiving in Westport, which was one of the best holidays I’ve ever had. I love your parents. And let it be noted I did not laugh at any of the pictures your mother showed me. My favorite was the one of you in the dinosaur costume in that school play. You were an adorable eight-year-old T-Rex.

8½ inches, huh? Go figure you’d include that last half-inch.

I’m from Laguna Beach, Josh. You know that if it dips below 50 degrees I bitch and moan, however snow is beautiful and wondrous and fun to throw at your face. It makes a lot of sense to me.

Love,

Sam

***********************************************************************************************************************

Friday, December 6, 1985

Sam,

Of course I included that last half-inch. Besides, you’re the one who insisted on measuring it.

I was most emphatically _not_ an adorable T-Rex. I was a terrifying, bloodthirsty lizard of death.

Received my round-trip ticket from Dulles International Airport to John Wayne Airport. Seriously, John Wayne Airport? You Californians are nuts. I land Monday (the 23rd) at about noon PST and fly back Friday morning (the 27th). I cannot believe your parents are letting me stay in your bedroom. I should buy them an extra-nice gift for making that allowance. Even if we don’t have sex -- although you had no compunction about jumping me when we stayed at _my_ parents’ house -- it’ll make it an easier trip for both of us if we _literally_ sleep together.

I wish I could see you before then but I respect that you need to concentrate all your time on final exams and the new draft of your thesis. I understand the logic, as I am a highly compelling presence who commands your attention to the exclusion of all other things in your life. It’s a curse, really.

Josh

***********************************************************************************************************************

Friday, December 20, 1985

Josh,

You are a raging egomaniac and I can’t wait to see you on Monday. You bet your perfect ass that we’re going to have sex next week. My parents can’t spend the entire four days monitoring our every move. I’ll bring the lube, you bring your 8½ inches.

Love,

Sam


	15. December 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know, there’s a closet in my bedroom,” I snap. “Want us to hide in there until the week is over?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite being Jewish I love writing things set at Christmas. Go figure.

SAM POV

“Josh!” I wave frantically and the butterflies in my stomach let loose in full force when he catches my eye and his face splits into a huge grin.

“Sam,” he says under his breath when he reaches me. A quick peck on the cheek is all he risks given the throngs of people milling about the airport terminal, though he allows me to pull him into an embrace and kiss the sensitive spot right under his ear.

“How was your flight?”

“Long. Cramped. I sat next to a Jesus freak who wouldn’t stop talking about how secular this holiday season has become and expressed shock when I politely told him I’m Jewish. I got the whole ‘you don’t look like one of them’ response.”

“I guess the trip can only get better from there, huh?”

Josh picks up on my nerves and his grin softens into a comforting smile. “Hey, this is going to be fine. I’ll be on my best behavior, promise.”

“You’re not the one I’m worried about,” I mutter. “Do you have luggage we need to pick up?”

“Yeah, baggage claim number four.” Josh digs out his claim ticket and walks alongside me down to the lower level of the airport, his hip occasionally brushing mine in a manner I know is deliberate. “How’s it been since you got here?”

“In the 36 hours since my arrival my mother has made every excuse to be out of the house, and if she’s at home she tries to make sure my dad’s always in the room with us.”

“She’s probably nervous.”

“No shit,” I snap, loud enough that the mother of a young girl turns to give me a disapproving look.

“Sam, don’t be like this.”

I fix him with a glare. “Like what?”

“You want to start this week off with a fight? Really?” Josh keeps his voice low as we reach the baggage claim but there’s no mistaking his frustration. “I’m here for you. Don’t take this out on me. It’s not going to do you any good if we’re bitching at each other when we get to their house.”

He’s right; if Mom smells blood in the water she’s going to pounce. I force myself to take a deep breath. Let her be as nervous as she wants. Josh and I will be a united front and she’ll have to deal with that.

*****

“ _This_ is where you grew up?” My boyfriend sounds more than a little awestruck.

“Um, Josh? Haven’t you ever seen the gigantic colonial house where _you_ grew up? This isn’t nearly as fancy as your family’s place.”

“But you have palm trees in your front yard!” he exclaims. “Palm trees! I never had palm trees in my yard.”

“It’s southern California,” I laugh.

“These palm trees are real?”

“Yes, they are. Stop saying ‘palm trees’ so many times. It doesn’t sound like a real thing if you say it over and over. Grab your suitcase and I’ll give you a tour of the house.”

Surprise, surprise -- my mom’s car isn’t in the driveway. She’s ducking me again, and now she’s ducking Josh as well. Dad is at work today, so Josh and I have the place to ourselves for now. I’m honestly relieved, as much as it bothers me that Mom has made herself scarce; it’s a big deal for me to have Josh here and I need some time with him alone to ease my anxiety before I have to make what I imagine will not be the most comfortable introductions when Mom deigns to come back to the house. Josh, being the wonderful boyfriend he is, pulls me into a long kiss the second we’re in the front door. It’s a comforting gesture, not meant to lead to anything more than a show of support and a way to reconnect after three weeks apart.

“Hi there,” he says when we pull apart.

“Hi, yourself.” I release a long exhale and press our bodies together. “I needed that.”

“I could tell. Sam, listen to me -- no matter what your mother is like this week, we will be fine. She’s allowing me to stay in her house, in _your_ room. That has to mean something. Please try to be positive about this. I don’t want you to be freaking out all the time because then _I’ll_ start freaking out and then I’ll probably say something really stupid that pisses everybody off.”

I laugh despite myself. “That’s pretty sound logic.”

“Come on now,” he urges with a gentle swat on my ass. “Give me the grand tour.”

*****

“I’m home! Sam, help me with these groceries!” My head jerks up at the sound of my mother’s way-too-cheery voice floating up to my bedroom from downstairs. “Samuel? Darling, are you here?”

“Do I look okay?” Josh hisses. He smooths his tee-shirt and checks to make sure the fly of his jeans is zipped. I want to laugh; Josh never cares about how he looks, even if he always manages to look good. God, I feel like an idiot. I’ve been so fixed on my own anxiety that it never occurred to me that he’d be nervous about this, too. Of course he would be -- I almost threw up in the cab the first time I went to meet Noah and Clara Lyman.

“You look fine,” I assure him, quickly raking my fingers through his hair.

He squeezes my hand and drops a kiss on my cheek. “Want to go down alone?”

“What, you’re throwing me to the lions?”

“Maybe...I don’t know…” He’s uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

“You’re here, Josh. She should meet you. Let’s go, you look fine.” Whatever bravado I’m projecting is obviously false, and thank God Josh doesn’t call me out on it.

“Sam?” Mom sounds more insistent than she did a minute ago.

“Let’s go before she thinks the delay is because she interrupted us fucking like bunnies,” Josh whispers. I stifle a laugh and grab his hand to tug him out of the bedroom and downstairs. At the last second I drop Josh’s hand, unsure if it’ll make things harder if we walk into the kitchen touching each other, then immediately regret the loss of contact. I reach for him again but he’s stepped just out of range.

Mom looks up as we step into the kitchen, the edginess on her face mirroring what Josh and I are feeling. She schools her features into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and gives my boyfriend a once-over. It’s her first time seeing him, as I haven’t even shown her photos of Josh -- until now I’ve never been sure about how much I can bring him into discussion without her getting freaked out and the conversation inevitably going south. Apparently she likes enough of what she sees, because she steps forward and her smile relaxes. “Samuel, you’re not going to introduce us? I raised you better than that.”

I’m torn between wanting to laugh with relief and wanting to yell at her for acting like this is no big deal. In the end I do neither. “Mom, this is Josh. Josh, this is my mother.” I probably could not sound less enthusiastic if I tried.

“Mrs. Seaborn, it’s nice to meet you,” Josh says with practiced ease.

“None of that Mrs. Seaborn business,” Mom clucks. “Please call me Betty.” Jesus Christ. Call me Betty? Like she’s all buddy-buddy with the guy she barely wanted to hear about for the past eighteen months? “It’s nice to finally meet you, Josh.”

“Nice to _finally_ meet him?” I laugh. “What, like you’d been wanting to meet him before this?” Shit. That was not supposed to leave my internal monologue.

Josh clears his throat. “Betty, you said you needed help with the groceries?” He gestures to the overflowing bags on the counter.

“Yes, thank you, Josh. That would be nice.” She starts telling him where things go and when he turns his back she throws me a look that tells me we’ll be discussing my little outburst later. Terrific.

“The eggs go here?” Josh asks.

“Next shelf,” Mom tells him. “So Josh, what exactly do you do? Sam’s told me you’re a Floor Manager, but I’m not nearly as well-versed in politics as my son. Can you explain what your job is?”

I’ve slipped into the Twilight Zone. That’s the only explanation for my mom acting like it’s perfectly normal for her son’s homosexual lover to be in her kitchen after all this time dancing around his existence and the last day and a half of dancing around my presence at home. Josh lays out what his job means and talks to Mom about who he works for and the kind of legislation he’s helping push through. There’s an awkward question about why my white boyfriend would be so enthusiastic about working for the Black Caucus and why said Caucus is necessary in 1985 after “all the progress we’ve made,” and luckily Josh defuses that line of inquiry before the conversation strays into uncomfortable territory. My parents aren’t Republicans but they’re far more conservative than either Josh or I, and they never discuss politics that much to begin with. I’ve joked that coming out as a diehard liberal who wants to get a degree in political science and work in Washington was good preparation for coming out as gay; Mom and Dad expected me to study law or business and stay in Orange County like the generations of Seaborns who came before me. When they realized I took after my firebrand of a grandmother (Dad’s mother, who would most likely kick her daughter-in-law’s ass if she saw how Mom has handled my being gay) and considered yelling at Republicans on _Face the Nation_ as a fun way to unwind on Sunday mornings, they were taken aback to put it mildly.

“Your parents must be very proud,” Mom is saying to Josh as he and I finish arranging the groceries in the fridge.

“They are.” Josh looks directly at my mother as he says, “they’ve always supported me.” The edge in his voice is unmistakable and the implication is clear.

Mom colors noticeably. “That’s good to hear. I am very proud of Sam, you know,” she tells Josh.

“Ah-kay.” He smiles at her but I know it’s not genuine.

“I _am_ ,” she repeats.

“Well, you should be!” Josh exclaims. “Sam is brilliant and kind and funny and--”

“And Sam is standing right here,” I point out to both of them. “You could maybe talk _to_ me instead of about me.” Josh tosses me an apologetic smile and I shake my head to let him know I’m not actually upset with him. Out of the corner of my eye I see Mom watching our silent communication. “Mom, can we go to Domenico’s for dinner tonight? Josh has had to listen to me rave about their food anytime he takes me to an Italian place in D.C.”

“Did you see the mountain of groceries you boys just put away?” Mom asks. “Your father has plans to grill steaks tonight and make chili for Christmas Eve dinner. Maybe we can go to Domenico’s on Thursday but he may have a meal planned for that night, too.”

Or maybe they just don’t want to take me and Josh anywhere we could bump into someone they know and prompt awkward explanations about my boyfriend’s presence. “Fine, I’ll talk to Dad,” I say tightly.

*****

The sun is already high in the morning sky when I wake up on Tuesday. It’s Christmas Eve, which is when my family decorates the tree -- it’s a nonsensical setup, seeing as how we decorate the tree one day before Christmas, which we always spend with my mom’s family in Newport Beach, so the poor tree doesn’t get nearly as much time to shine for the amount of effort we put into decorating it. My parents are sticklers for tradition, so there’s not much to be done about it.

At some point in the night Josh slung an arm over me and is now pressed against my back, snoring gently into my ear. You know it’s true love when the sound of your boyfriend snoring makes you smile. He’s certainly earned a good night’s sleep after yesterday. My mom was on her best behavior all day but I could see Josh constantly pulling himself back before he snapped at her. He’s had to deal with the fallout of my contentious relationship with her over the past year and a half, and I know there’s no love lost on his end when it comes to getting to know her; knowing Josh, he must have had a dozen rants prepared to unleash on her but he held his tongue. The one time he started to get into it, I interrupted him and he dropped it at once. I don’t want him fighting my battles and I’m immensely grateful he’s honoring that request.

The smell of pancakes wafts upstairs and I elbow Josh in the ribs. “Josh. _Josh_.” No response. “You gotta get off me, I want to go have pancakes.”

Mentioning food does the trick; Josh sits up and stretches, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Pancakes, huh?”

“Mom makes really good ones. Come on.”

Josh and I dress quickly and head downstairs; he greets both of my parents and finds his way to the coffeemaker, pouring himself a mug. My father gestures for Josh to sit next to him and immediately hands him the front-page section of the _Los Angeles Times_. If the first meeting between my mom and Josh was tentative and awkward, what followed when Dad came home from work was nothing short of ideal -- he took to Josh instantly, spending the entire evening talking with him. By the time Josh and I hit the sack there was no question that at least one of my parents was glad to have him there for the holidays. Hopefully that’ll rub off on Mom, but Dad has (for the most part) been in my corner since about a month after I came out and she’s still giving me mixed signals.

“How’s your breakfast, boys?” Mom asks. Her smile is frozen and she looks nervous. Would it kill her to relax and act like this isn’t some cataclysmic event?

“The pancakes are fantastic, Betty,” Josh manages to say around a mouthful of food.

“Good, I’m glad. Do you need more coffee?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” He peels off one page from the newspaper and tosses it to me. “You’ll appreciate this editorial on South Africa.”

I nod. “Thanks. Here, take the sports section.”

“You’re done with it already?”

“The Lakers got creamed yesterday; I don’t need to read the entire postmortem.”

“Got it.” He looks up as Mom takes a seat at the table and sips a glass of grapefruit juice, not making eye contact with anyone. “Betty, do you want any part of the paper?” Josh really is putting forth one hell of an effort to stay on her good side.

“No, thank you. I don’t usually read the newspaper.” She sets the glass down and fiddles with it, then looks at Dad. “Bill, what time do you want to decorate the tree?”

He shrugs. “I’ll defer to Sam on this one.”

“In another hour, maybe?” I suggest.

“That sounds fine,” Mom says. She turns her gaze to me and takes a deep breath. “Sam, how would you feel about staying here tomorrow? We could do Christmas at home -- me, you, Dad, and Josh.”

I stare at her, processing the implication. “You don’t want to go to Uncle David’s for Christmas? We go to Newport Beach every year, Mom.”

“I thought maybe we could start a new tradition.” The fake smile is back and I clench my fists under the table. “It could be very nice, and I’m sure it’d be a lot less overwhelming for Josh than meeting all your cousins and aunts and uncles. There’s about 25 people there,” she tells Josh. “It’s always hectic, to say the least.”

“You don’t want to have to introduce Josh to your family,” I spit out. “What, did you invite him here just so you could make sure he knew he’s not welcome?” I cringe as I see Josh put his fork down and look at his plate rather than anyone at the table. “You guys were the ones who asked Josh to come out here, and now you’re throwing away twenty years of tradition so you can make sure the two of us are hidden away?”

“Sam, please let us explain,” Dad says.

“You know, there’s a closet in my bedroom,” I snap. “Want us to hide in there until the week is over?”

“It’s not like that, Sam,” Mom insists, and I lose it.

“Do you fucking understand that this is who I am?” I scream at her. “Can your narrow-minded brain possibly comprehend that?”

“Samuel Norman!” Dad slams his hand down on the table.

“Excuse me,” Mom says, her voice breaking. “I’m sorry, please excuse me.” She stands up and darts upstairs, leaving me to stand up and start to go after her. My whole body is shaking with fury and before I can take two steps my father stands up and blocks my way.

“Sit down,” he orders. “Now!”

I can count on one hand the number of times Dad has raised his voice to me. His way is to lecture, and I’m so stunned to hear him yelling that I reflexively obey and sink back down into my chair. I look at Josh and the fury rises in me again as I see him torn between wanting to get the hell out of this house and refusing to leave me in this state. “Dad, I don’t know where you get off yelling at _me_ when you guys are the ones treating us like this!”

“I am only going to say this once,” Dad says, ignoring my outburst. “Both your mother and I should have handled this better, but we didn’t know how to broach the subject. The decision to stay home for Christmas was not made to upset either you or Josh.” He glances at Josh. “We’re both happy you’re here, and I apologize if we’ve made you think otherwise.”

Josh flails for a response before saying, “it’s okay, really.”

“Sam,” he continues, “your mother told her brother a few weeks ago that Josh would be joining us, and he told her that was not something he wanted. She spent a few days trying to get him to change his mind, then decided that if Josh wasn’t welcome at your uncle’s house, then none of us would go. She hasn’t once gone back on that decision. We should have explained this earlier, and I’m sorry for that but she was hoping David would change his mind. While I understand your mother has not always been supportive since you came out last summer, she...” Dad shakes his head. “Son, she loves you and she’s trying to do the right thing. She chose to spend Christmas with you and Josh rather than her family because she wanted you to be happy.”

“Dad, I…” I’m nearly at a total loss for words. Okay, so screaming in my mother’s face was not the best move but they really _should_ have explained this earlier.

“I think you should go talk to her, don’t you?” He gestures to Josh. “Would you mind helping me bring the ornaments and garlands down to the living room? We can get things set up for decorating the tree.”

“Sure, I’d be glad to help.” For once Josh’s face is a perfect mask of neutrality. I can’t even imagine how awkward he must feel, but he’s not letting any of it show.

“Thank you, Josh.” Dad smiles at him and leads the way to the spare bedroom where we keep all the Christmas paraphernalia.

I gather up what’s left of my dignity and trudge upstairs, knocking once on the door of my parents’ bedroom before entering. Mom is sitting on the edge of the bed with her hands folded in her lap, crying softly; I cross the room in a few quick steps and sit down next to her, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Dad explained what happened with Uncle David,” I say haltingly.

Mom reaches for my other hand and grips it tightly. “I’m so sorry, Sam. I know you love going to their house for the holiday and maybe I was wrong to assume you’d prefer to spend it with Josh, but I thought if I gave you the option of disinviting him you’d get upset with me.” She laughs weakly. “I guess that’s moot now.”

“No, Mom…” I squeeze her hand. “You weren’t wrong to assume I’d prefer to spend Christmas with Josh, and even if he weren’t here I wouldn’t want to be with people who don’t accept that part of my life. It’s a _huge_ part of my life, and I can’t switch it off because it makes someone uncomfortable.”

“I won’t ask you to,” Mom says vehemently. “Look, Sam -- I know I reacted badly when you came out. And I know that I have not given you the… _acceptance_ you deserve. I had hoped this week could be a fresh start, and I should have explained the whole situation with our Christmas plans before today. I just couldn’t stand to think about how it would hurt you to know my family is acting this way, and I hoped that maybe they’d come around at the last minute. That’s why I kept finding reasons not to talk to you when you first got here. I was so angry about this, Sam.” Her arms wrap around me, holding me tightly. “I am sorry if I ever made you feel I was rejecting you. I love you, Samuel.”

“I love you, too,” I say quietly.. “Thank you for standing up for me and for Josh.”

“You’re welcome.” She kisses me again and then cups my face in her hands, giving me a tremulous smile. “I am very happy your father invited him for the holidays. I admit I didn’t know quite what to expect. You’d told me a little about him, but I know I didn’t always want to hear much detail.”

“You really like him?”

“Yes, I do.” Mom laughs a little. “I suppose I was worried he would be...well, I don’t exactly know what I was worried about.”

“The age difference?”

“No, it’s not that. The thing is, Sam, when you told me you were gay you told me about this mysterious Josh in the same breath. It was hard for me to understand that you’ve always been this way -- even after you told me twenty times. It was always easier for me to ‘blame’ your boyfriend for this. I thought maybe you would have eventually started dating girls if you hadn’t met him, or...I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “It was stupid.”

“Mom, I _would_ have eventually started dating girls if I hadn’t met Josh, but not for the reason you thought. I was terrified of being gay. I was afraid of my own feelings. I went out on a date with one girl at Princeton and I hated myself for it because I was lying to her, and to myself. I couldn’t bring myself to date girls but I didn’t know how to live as myself. Josh didn’t make me gay; he gave me the confidence to come out and be honest about who I am. He…”

“He loves you very much,” she sighs. “It’s impossible to spend five minutes with the two of you without seeing how much he cares. When he said yesterday that you were all these wonderful things and that I should be proud of you, well, if I ever needed a sign that he was good for you, that was it. I got defensive because I knew you must have told him about our arguments over the past year and I was ashamed.”

“It’s okay, Mom.”

“It’s not okay!”

“Yes, it is. Really.” I give her a brief hug followed by the most reassuring smile I can manage. “We can move past this and spend the next few days having a nice Christmas. You can get to know Josh, he’ll get to know you, and everything will work itself out.”

“I should go explain to him that nobody in this house is upset he’s here. The last thing I want is him thinking I’m blaming him for our change in plans.”

“I think Dad’s taking care of that.”

“I should do it myself. It’s _my_ brother acting this way.”

“Mom, don’t. Seriously, he feels awkward enough as it is after what happened, and Josh hates being treated with kid gloves. I don’t want this week to be about the whole thing with Uncle David.”

She nods. “Whatever you think is best.”

“Hey, Dad and Josh went to get the tree stuff from the spare room. Maybe you and I could put on some Christmas music and see if they’re ready to help us decorate.” I stand up and pull Mom to her feet.

“Oh, Samuel.” Mom smooths my hair. “You’re such a good boy.”

“Thanks,” I laugh, a little embarrassed. She hasn’t said that to me since I was about ten years old.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I think I can relax after the talk we just had.”

“Thank God. You’re always such a nervous hoolelia, Samuel.”

I roll my eyes and dutifully follow her back downstairs. Josh is standing in the living room with a newly poured cup of coffee in one hand and a garland of dried cranberries in the other, looking very confused about what to do with the garland. “Hey, let me help.” I grab the cranberries from him and drape them around the tree.

“Why, exactly, do we put berries on a dead tree?”

“It’s a Christmas mystery, Josh.” I catch his gaze and try to gauge how he’s handling all this melodrama. “You okay?” I ask under my breath.

“Only if you are.”

I give him a swift kiss. “I’m fine. Really.”

“She’s okay?”

“She likes you. She thinks you’re good for me.”

“I _am_ good for you,” Josh says reasonably.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Hey look, mistletoe!”

“Josh, that is tinsel.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s mistletoe.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re an idiot.”

“Boys, stop fighting!” my mother yells from the kitchen. “Sam, don’t call Josh an idiot.”

“He is an idiot!” I yell back.

“Samuel! Stop being mean!”

Josh slides his arms around me from behind and I can feel him shaking with laughter. “You have to stop being mean to me, Samuel.”

“I hate you,” I mutter.

“I love you, too.”

“She likes you better than me now.”

“That’s understandable.” Josh turns me around without relinquishing our embrace. “Merry Christmas, Sam.”

“You’re a day early,” I remind him. He laughs and kisses the tip of my nose. “We really have to find some mistletoe.”

“We really do,” he agrees.

*****

“This is not mistletoe.”

“Sure it is!”

“Josh, I’m pretty sure that’s a frond from my mother’s potted fern.”

“Do you think she’ll notice it’s gone?”

“You stole a piece of my mother’s fern!”

“Keep your voice down! Besides, it’s not like she counts the fronds every day.”

“She might, actually.”

“Look, can you pretend this is mistletoe?”

“Why am I--mmmmph!”

“That’s why.”

“Kiss me again.”

“Pretty bossy for a guy who didn’t like my mistletoe.”

“Put the fucking frond down and kiss me.”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“Sam?”

“Hmm?”

“We...we shouldn’t…”

“Are you serious?”

“Your parents are down the hall!”

“They sleep like the dead, trust me.”

“As much as I love sharing a bed with you, I don’t think this is the time or place to--”

“We did it at your parents’ place.”

“Not when they were in the house!”

“We said we’d do this.”

“Not when your mom and dad are fifty feet away!”

“Will you shut up and let me do this for you? Jeez, I try to give you a blow job and this is how you react?”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment -- _oh holy fucking God_.”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“Josh?”

“Yeah...huh...what?”

“I never knew you could be that quiet.”

“Fear is a powerful motivator, babe.”

“Hey, you know I’m really glad you came.”

“There wasn’t much of a chance that I wouldn’t, not with the way you were sucking--”

“No, I meant I was glad you came to California.”

“Right, I knew that.”

“Seriously.”

“I’m glad, too. Now take off your shorts and...yeah, like that. Good.”

“...”

“...”

“Josh!”

“Fuck! Can’t you keep quiet?!”

“Not when you do that! And was I really that loud?”

“I think they could hear you in Anaheim.”

“Oh, no.”

“If your parents ask--”

“Don’t finish that thought, Josh.”

“--just tell them you were yelling at me for something stupid I said. They’ll believe that.”

“That’s nice of you to take the hit for me.”

“You’re the one who started this.”

“You got the mistletoe! Or the frond, whatever!”

“I just wanted a _kiss_ , Sam.”

“...seriously?”

“Yes, seriously!”

“Oh.”

“It’s ten minutes after midnight and I thought I’d give you a kiss to start your Christmas.”

“Oh.”

“Sam?”

“Yes?”

“Merry Christmas.”

“...”

“...”

“Josh?”

“Yes?”

“Next year, keep in mind that you’ll never need mistletoe as an excuse to give me any kind of kiss.”

“Maybe I just like ruining your mother’s plants.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you. Now go to sleep.”

“You really are a hoolelia.”

“I’m going to kill my mother for teaching you that word.”

“It’s just so apt, Sam.”

“I’m going to kill her and then I’m going to kill you.”

“Joy to the world, huh?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Ah-kay.”


	16. February 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want to be spread-eagled.”

JOSH POV

If you ask me, there is no better way to kick off a long weekend than having Sam in my bed. It’s our first visit in almost a month due to my crazy job and his backbreaking efforts to get his thesis written; the notion of free time is quickly vanishing from both our lives, and by some miracle we were both able to block out President’s Day weekend so he could drive down after his Friday morning class and spend three days with me. Washington D.C. is in the middle of a deep freeze, so after trudging through icy blasts and swirling snow on our way home from a late lunch Sam had the genius idea for us to get naked and burrow under every blanket I own then press against one another. He said it was for the body heat, but I’m not that gullible. I doubt body heat is what he has in mind when he guides my hand to his cock and arches against me in a silent plea. I’m content to lie here with him and have a lazy jerk-off session while we regain the ability to feel our extremities, however Sam has other ideas.

“Josh?” His tongue flickers out to dance against my earlobe.

“Mmm?” I’m too busy staring at his cock, wrapped tightly in my fist as it surges to full hardness.

“Sweetheart, that feels so good but I want something else.”

“This isn’t enough for you?” I tease, rubbing my thumb over the sensitive spot just under his cockhead.

Sam gasps and arches again. “Please, Josh...stop for a second.”

I release my hold and lie down next to him, allowing him to pull me in for a slow, deep kiss. “You have something else in mind?”

“Yeah.” He chews his bottom lip for a second, then seems to get self-conscious and stops. “Remember that conversation we had last summer?”

“We had a lot of conversations last summer, babe. You’ll have to be more specific.” I want desperately to reach out and map his body with my fingers and mouth, but I suspect Sam has a plan and I’ll let him lead the way.

“The one about...y’know…” He laughs and blushes. “That first weekend I moved in after the semester ended, we were talking about things we wanted to do. Fantasies.”

“Right. That’s when you told me you’re secretly a raging exhibitionist--”

“--and we can’t actually act out any of those fantasies, I know. That’s not what I’m referring to. I asked if, um, if there was anything you’d wanted to do with me that we haven’t tried yet.”

That conversation was awkward as hell. Sam is vaguely aware of my past promiscuity, and seeing as he’s mated for life with the first guy who got him in bed, he had to work hard to overcome his doubts that his inexperience wasn’t a barrier to my fulfillment. The first month we were together I was constantly assuring him of how much he was satisfying me, and he _was_ , believe me. As more time passed, it rarely cropped up -- but one night last summer Sam started asking all these questions about what my fantasies were, what kinds of things I’d done before we met that I hadn’t introduced him to, and so on. He tried to make it easier by dropping into conversation the bombshell that he’d fantasized about me fucking him some place where people could watch us, which he knew was never a possibility (even a personal videotape or Polaroids would be dangerous in my line of work). So that part of the dialogue was pretty hot, but when he asked me a question about my past experiences I decided honesty was the best policy.

Now for a little context: I have slept with a lot of guys in the 6½ years between when I lost my virginity and when I met Sam. There’s a reason Matt was shocked that he met Sam _before_ I’d fucked him senseless, and why he was shocked this thing actually lasted beyond a month. That’s fair. And while Sam has a hint of the notion that I earned a gold medal in bed hopping before he came along, he does not want any specific details, nor am I eager to offer them. I know how many men he’s been with: just one. Sam may be uninhibited in bed, but he’s also fundamentally a romantic who doesn’t understand the appeal of casual sex. The only reason he went to bed with a guy he’d just met is because he absolutely believed he was already in love with me. All this is to say that Sam knows I slept around a lot but it’s a totally foreign concept to him. There’s a sort of willful blindness he’s put in place, never asking about any previous boyfriends or one-night stands, and he’s never asked how many guys I’ve fucked. (Honestly, I hope he never does. I think the number would freak him out.)

But that night, he felt very determined to learn what things I’d done with other men that he hadn’t yet experienced. Since I’d never lie to him, I told him flat-out about a few acts we hadn’t tried yet despite my enjoying them in the past. The first was postcoital rimming and fingering, and my worries about Sam being turned off by that turned out to be for naught. We incorporated that into our repertoire almost immediately after I told him about it -- literally, about thirty minutes after I explained why I liked that. Another was the use of toys, and once he realized he could exercise his exhibitionism by fucking himself with a dildo while I watched, well, that became a part of our repertoire within a few days. That part was easy.

The sticking point came when I told him that I sometimes fantasized about tying him up. It’s not something I’ve done before, mainly because I didn’t spend enough time with my partners to get to the point where that level of trust was involved. It was, unsurprisingly, a nonstarter. He may have submissive tendencies, however he is at heart a pushy bottom between the sheets and a control freak out of the bedroom; I’d expected that the prospect of being completely restrained during sex would be overwhelming and so I wasn’t disappointed that he shot down that suggestion. Okay, I was a little disappointed. A tiny part of me held out hope that he would at the very least be intrigued enough for me to explain why I wanted to it and why I thought he might enjoy it if he gave it a chance, perhaps culminating in him broadening his horizons enough to try it. But no, that did not happen, and I let it drop.

So here we are now with Sam referencing that conversation, specifically ‘anything you’d wanted to do with me that we haven’t tried yet.’ My eyes must be as wide as saucers as I look at him, the unspoken question written on my face. Sam is blushing to the tips of his ears as he takes one of my hands in his, the fingers of his other hand running over my palm and fingers in a gentle caress.

“I’d like to try it,” he says shyly.

“Try what, exactly?”

“You know…” His nails scratch lightly over my wrist.

“You have to be able to say it, Sam.”

He looks me dead on with an expression I recognize -- it’s the one where he’s determined to go ahead and do something daunting and nothing is going to change his mind. “I want you to tie me up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“No, I mean it, Sam. Don’t do this for me. I’m _extremely_ satisfied with our sex life, and the last thing I want is for you to think you have to do this for me to keep me happy.”

“Josh,” he says reproachfully. “While I appreciate the speech, I’m not doing this on a whim.”

“You can’t blame me for making sure. You weren’t exactly enthusiastic when we talked about it last year.”

“Well, I gave it a lot of thought.”

“Seriously?”

“Um, yeah.” He’s blushing again. “When the debate club went to New York last month to go up against Columbia I took a side trip to Christopher Street and made a few purchases, including that flavored lube I mentioned.”

“Right, and how does that relate to this?”

“The shop had some of the stuff you talked about -- soft cuffs, you know, all that kind of equipment. It wasn’t as scary when it was right in front of me. I couldn’t help but think about what it would be like to try it.”

“Ah-kay. So...”

He grins and kisses me. “Check the shopping bag inside my suitcase.”

I stand up on shaky legs and dig the large brown paper bag out of his suitcase, peeking inside to find four sets of padded restraints. I pin him down and kiss him breathless. “Sam, you’re unbelievable. You’re _sure_ about this?”

“You already asked me that.” His eyes are alight with bemusement. “Yes, I’m sure. Not only do I want this, I trust you. I’ve trusted you since the first time you took me to bed and I know you’d never take advantage of me just so you could get off.”

“Never,” I vow.

“Good. Now let’s do this. I want to be spread-eagled.”

Holy fuck. Just when I think I’ve got Sam all figured out, he does something like this. “I doubt this is what my parents had in mind when they bought this kind of bed for me,” I mutter, looping a cuff around Sam’s wrist and securing the other end to a slat in the headboard.

He laughs throatily. “I also doubt it was what my parents had in mind when they gave me $200 for Christmas and told me to treat myself to something fun.” I secure Sam’s other wrist and test the give in the cuffs, and he nods his reassurance that he’s fine. He splays his legs wide to me a perfect view of his puckered hole, and I slide a pillow under his ass; his erection, which had flagged during our conversation, is now at half-mast again. It’s times like this I wish I _could_ risk taking a Polaroid of the tableau laid before me.

“Pick a safe word,” I prompt.

“Princeton,” he says automatically.

“Good. The moment you don’t feel comfortable--”

“I know, Josh.” His body is thrumming with anticipation but the smile he gives me is soft and loving.

I lift one leg and kiss his ankle, securing the third restraint and cuffing it to the footboard; finally Sam’s other leg is restrained and he lies there, taking deep breaths as he looks at me expectantly. “You okay?”

“I won’t be if you don’t do something soon.” Like I said, he’s a pushy bottom. Well, he’s going to have to adjust to being completely submissive tonight. I slick three fingers and push them in all at once, reveling in Sam’s sharp gasp, then leave them buried inside him without moving. “Josh,” he whines. “Josh!”

Somehow he just stretched my name out to four syllables.

“You have to learn to be patient,” I murmur.

He attempts to swivel his hips to force some stimulation and whines again when he finds just how curtailed his mobility is. “Please, Josh!”

“Please what, Sam?” Using my free hand I lightly rake my fingernails over his swollen sac, grinning as his dick twitches and arcs towards his belly.

“Please...oh God, just do something, please!”

“You’ll have to be more specific, babe. If you want me to do _anything_ , I could do this…” I lean down and kiss his chest, teasing one of his nipples to a point with my teeth and tongue. “Is that what you’re asking for?”

He swallows a choked moan and clenches his ass around my fingers. “Josh, please. Fuck me, fuck me with your fingers and then _please_ ram your gorgeous cock up in me!”

“Now then, was that so difficult?” I scissor my fingers and stretch him carefully, being sure to avoid brushing his prostate. Sam is trying wildly to buck and twist against my fingers without success; there’s a thin sheen of sweat breaking out and his pupils are dilated until only a sliver of blue irises surround them. I look for any signs of fear or discomfort but find only unfettered arousal. “You love this,” I purr. “I could fuck you over and over again and never touch your cock, or I could suck you without ever letting you come. You’re completely, utterly at my mercy.”

Sam lets a mewling noise escape his throat. His cock is leaking precome now and I dip my head to lap up a few drops, quickly pulling back before he gets too much satisfaction. I expect him to whine again but instead he looks at me with wide eyes and whispers, “please fuck me. _Please_.”

I work my fingers out and smooth the lube over my erection, carefully positioning myself so I’m not putting any pressure on his legs. With excruciating slowness I penetrate Sam’s tight hole, moaning along with him as I breach his body, and inch forward until at last I’m fully seated inside him. Through enormous strength of will I stop myself from doing what I want to do -- thrust deep into that tight, hot channel and fuck Sam until we both come hard -- and instead capture his mouth in a kiss that I hope conveys the enormity of what I feel for him. This isn’t merely a means to get off, it’s Sam trusting me completely to take care of him in every way, and I want to tell him over and over how full of love my heart is for this impossibly wonderful man.

“Josh,” he whispers against my lips. A thrill courses through me at the knowledge that nobody else has ever seen Sam like this, and I’m not even talking about the fact that he’s spread-eagled and cuffed to a bed. His eyes are clouded with lust and his hair is a tousled mess, his usual meticulously groomed appearance blown all to hell, his lean body naked and trembling beneath me, his hole stretched wide to accommodate my dick, and nobody else has ever seen him like this. Nobody else ever will see him like this.

“Sam, the things you do to me…” I rock my hips, purposefully keeping my thrusts slow and shallow.

He stares up at me, his need written on his beautiful face. “Please, I need you to fuck me.”

“I am fucking you,” I tease.

“No, I need _more_ , Josh!”

“This is what you’re getting,” I say sternly. “You’re not in control here, Sam.” I thrust again and run one finger up the length of his cock, watching his entire body tense and quiver. “God, you’re beautiful like this -- bound and spread and begging to be fucked. I can do anything I want to you, Sam,” I murmur. “ _Anything_.”

I descend for another kiss, hoping to convey that even though I’m emphasizing just how much he’s at my mercy I would never, ever betray that trust. Sam tries to move against me and whimpers when he doesn’t get far. When I pull back, he licks his lips and fixes me with a look of pure desire. “Please,” he says, his voice so soft I barely hear it. “Please,” he says again, louder. I quicken my rhythm, thrusting deeper and deeper into his yielding heat. A litany of curses falls from my lips as I shift my angle, hitting Sam’s prostate and making him cry out. “Please, Josh... _use_ me.”

“My beautiful Sam,” I say fiercely, jabbing him again. “My bitch.”

My fear that using that word would be too much for him is for naught as Sam’s breath catches and he arches sinuously. “Oh God, Josh!”

“I want you to come for me. Come on, babe, I know you can. All you need is my thick cock fucking you into submission, making you my whore…”

Sam shrieks as I pump my cock deep into him and I watch transfixed as his body pulls against the restraints, his erection twitching and surging up towards his stomach. One more thrust and he comes undone, his release spurting over the taut skin of his belly. He lies there beneath me, wide-eyed and gasping, and all I can do is pound into his warm, pliant body; as I near my climax I note with a victorious grin that his cock is hardening again. I brush my fingers over his half-hard prick before scooping up some of his come and rubbing my sticky fingers over his soft lips. Immediately he opens his mouth and sucks greedily at the mess, whimpering and staring at me as his pink tongue flicks over the streaks of his own semen. I can’t take any more. With a shuddering groan I slam home and find my release deep inside him, relishing his mewl of frustration as my softening cock slides out of his over-stimulated hole.

“Need to come again?” I ask breathlessly, rocking back on my heels and raking my eyes over the sinfully gorgeous sight of Sam with streaks of come on his lips and stomach, with all four limbs cuffed to the bed, with his lovely cock straining with arousal inches from my face.

“Yes, please.” The answer is swift and heartfelt. The pushy bottom is gone, replaced by this breathtakingly submissive Sam, and I know in an instant that he’s not playing a role because he thinks it’ll turn me on; this feels as right to him as every time he’s _demanded_ that I fuck him and told me exactly how he wants it. A year and a half after I first took him to bed and he’s still surprising me.

“You asked so nicely, babe.” I place an open-mouthed kiss on the head of his cock before taking him into my throat, swallowing him all the way down, and a split second later I work two fingers into his slick hole, working them in a corkscrew rhythm that he’s particularly fond of. Sam jackknifes up as much as he can and screams my name, muscles clenching around my fingers as he shoots his creamy load and I scramble to capture as much as I can in my mouth. Finally I let his dick slip from my lips and, removing my fingers from his body, I slide up and kiss him, pushing his thick come into his mouth so he can swallow it all.

He’s smiling when our kiss ends. “That was…”

“I know.” I smirk and undo each of the restraints, placing them back in Sam’s suitcase and walking into the bathroom to clean my fingers and get a damp washcloth.

Sam groans his relief as he shakes out his arms and legs, looking up at me as I rejoin him in bed. My smirk softens and I pull him into an embrace so he’s lying between my thighs, his back against my chest; slowly, lovingly, I run the cloth over his stomach and limp penis, then down over his balls and well-fucked asshole. He trembles slightly as I clean the sensitive spots and I kiss the top of his head. “Was that as good as your fantasy?”

“It was much, much better,” I assure him. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Sweetheart, I don’t even have words for how much I enjoyed it,” he says at last.

“If I’ve rendered you incapable of coherent speech, it must have been pretty good,” I chuckle.

“Oh, it was so far beyond ‘pretty good,’ Josh.” He turns in my arms and pins me with a look of staggering devotion and love. I should feel chest-thumping pride to know that Sam gave himself over so completely to me and that I’m the only man who will ever make him feel like this, but all I can feel is utterly humbled.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

“Seriously, it was amazing.”

“I appreciate the confidence-builder but that’s not why I’m thanking you.”

He smiles and kisses me. “So why are you thanking me?”

“Because you put your trust in me. Because you could have anyone you wanted and you chose me. Do you know how humbling that is?”

Sam cups my face with one hand, his eyes darkening. “Josh, you _did_ have anyone you wanted and you stopped all that when you met me. You’re not the only one who feels humbled by all this.”

“I never thought I’d want this,” I confess.

“I know. I never thought I’d _have_ it.”

“Here’s to completely underestimating ourselves,” I say cheerily.

“Mmm, I also never thought I’d want to be tied up so you could fuck me within an inch of my life.”

“That good, huh?”

“Fucking unbelievable,” Sam sighs.

I brush a stray lock of hair from his eyes and kiss him. “Thank you for trusting me.”

He smiles before pressing a kiss to my mouth. “Thank you for loving me.”


	17. April 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you wearing?”  
> It’s such a goddamned cliché of a line but I fall for it every time.

SAM POV

“Hello?”

I grin reflexively at the sound of Josh’s voice. “Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey, you.” I know he’s grinning, too.

“You have a few minutes to talk?”

“For you? Always.” That’s not entirely true, given how difficult Josh’s work schedule makes it for me to reach him at times, but one thing he always does is make sure that whenever he’s at home when I call he puts aside whatever he’s doing to speak to me. “How’s the prep going?”

“It’s okay. I’m still scared witless but you’ll be there, right?”

“You bet your ass I will,” Josh says. I’m defending my thesis in ten days and most of my free time for the past two weeks has been spent with my advisor trying to prepare myself for every question the panel can throw at me. Given the highly controversial subject I’m expecting them to try and poke all kinds of holes in my reasoning, and I was flooded with relief when Josh put in for a vacation day so he can drive up here and be there for support. I can count on one hand the number of good friends I have on campus, and only one of them actually agrees with the premise of my argument about same-sex marriage; my advisor is encouraging my thesis primarily because he likes courting controversy, not because he thinks my rationale is valid. Standing up in front of a panel of moderate-to-conservative professors and arguing for equal rights for gays and lesbians will be like skydiving without a parachute. I’m terrified that it’ll be a reprisal of my GLSA proposal being thrown back in my face, only on a much bigger scale, but it’s absolutely worth the risk. How can be myself -- for that matter, how can I love Josh with everything I have -- and not stand up for this? The butterflies are starting to build in my stomach just thinking about this, then Josh brings me back to earth by saying, “you’re gonna knock ‘em dead, Sam.” The absolute certainty in his voice kills me. He has so much faith in me, more faith than I have in myself.

“I miss you,” I say quietly.

“Miss you, too. But not for much longer, babe. You graduate in four weeks and then you’re coming down here.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” I can hear nervousness in Josh’s voice and my heart sinks. Despite all the promises we’ve made to each other I know there’s a tiny part of him that worries I’m going to bolt. It’s why he freaked out when our first summer together ended and why he believed I was breaking up with him when I didn’t respond right away to his declaration that he wanted to be with me always, no matter what happens. Though Josh is maddeningly arrogant 99% of the time (that’s not really a complaint, by the way), once in a very rare while he has these moments of pure terror that I’m tired of him and want out. He’s horrible about letting people in, something I suspect has to do with losing Joanie; now that I know him inside and out I realize the fact that he let me get so close so fast is mind-blowing. He doesn’t let _anyone_ get as close as I am, not even his own parents, and I’ve become increasingly mindful of his fear that after allowing me so deep into his heart and soul he’s going to lose me, either through a break-up or something worse. It kills me when he gets like this and he never, ever lets me talk to him about it.

“I have good news, sweetheart,” I rush to tell him, wanting to quell his anxiety. “Really good news.”

“What’s that?”

I exhale as I hear the strain leave his voice as quickly as it came. My darling, idiotic Josh. As if you could ever get rid of me. “So I kind of did something behind your back but it’s a good thing and I kept it quiet because I hoped it’d be a nice surprise for you.”

“And that would be what, exactly?”

“Leo set up an interview with me last month with Carol DeSantis’ office in New York City and I had two follow-up interviews--”

“Congresswoman DeSantis?”

“Congresswoman Carol DeSantis, yes. I had an interview with her Chief of Staff over the phone yesterday and they’re hiring me to be a speechwriter.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Are you _serious_?!” It’s hard not to laugh at how high Josh’s voice is getting. “You’re gonna be working on the Hill?”

“Starting Monday, June 2nd. Entry-level pay, full benefits--”

“Sam!” He’s laughing himself now. “Holy shit, I am so happy for you!”

“I’m happy, too. Happy for us. We’re going to, you know…” I twist the phone cord around my fingers and try to find words that won’t be too cheesy. “We’re going to make a life together. I mean, we have been already! The last two years have been, you know, but this is--”

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re babbling.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He takes a deep breath. “This is real, you know? It’s going to be different when the summer ends and you stay.”

“I know. It’s what I’ve wanted for so long, Josh. I’m not going to need more long-distance phone calls to hear your voice every day. I’ll get to go to sleep with you every night.”

“We should put your name on the lease,” he says suddenly. Josh moved in January to a newer, nicer place that I love. He picked it out on his own and he did a damned good job; it’s not the cramped bachelor pad he was living in when we met, but a spacious one-bedroom with beautiful views and a state-of-the-art kitchen that Josh never uses. Unlike his old place, this one has room for two people to live comfortably. “You’re going to be chipping in for rent. It’s going to be your place, too.”

“I’d like that. My parents are still going to pay my share of the June rent but once I get a few paychecks I’ll be able to kick in for July.” Yes, my parents, who didn’t know what the hell to do with a gay son at first, are insisting on helping with the rent until I’m on my own two feet financially, and have already changed my address in their address book to Josh’s apartment. ( _Our_ apartment.) My mom is trying to coordinate a visit to D.C. this summer that coincides with the Lymans visiting us, so they can meet Josh’s parents. Pigs must be flying somewhere, because I never thought she’d come around as fully as she has.

“And you should call Leo, let him know you got the gig. I can’t believe he didn’t mention anything to me -- I had dinner with him and Jenny two weeks ago!”

“I already called him. I wanted to tell you first but I thought since he got me the job--”

“He did _not_ get you the job,” Josh interrupts. “He got you the interview. You earned this on your own, Sam. The Congresswoman is tough and she’s fair, and she’s not going to have you come on board her staff because she wants to indulge Leo. You earned this.”

“Thanks,” I say softly. I laugh a little and close my eyes. “You know, it’s hard not to feel invincible when I’ve got you by my side.”

“Then I guess you’ll always feel invincible,” he replies, equally softly.

“I love you a lot, you know that?”

“I do know that.”

“Just making sure. You got weird for a second earlier.”

“Sam…” He sighs with exasperation. “It’s not a _thing_.”

“Okay.” Yeah right, it’s not a thing.

“It’s not.”

“Okay.”

“I really don’t want to do this now, Sam. This is...you got a job. You got a _good_ job. Can we focus on that?”

“I said okay!”

“Seriously, there’s better stuff to talk about than this.”

“Like?”

“Like how we’ll be working in the same building. DeSantis’ office is a five-minute walk from Brennan’s. We can have lunch whenever our schedules permit--”

“Which will be about once a month?” I joke.

“More than that, I promise. I have lunch with Matt every few weeks and I’m not dating _him_. We’ll make the time. I’m gonna woo you all over again, Seaborn.”

“You didn’t woo me the first time!” I laugh.

A very bizarre squawk of indignation travels across the phone line. “I did so! Hello, potluck dinner? Remember that?”

“That wasn’t wooing! That was you trying to get me into your apartment by any means necessary so you could charm my pants off.”

“It worked! And I took you out to Jean-Louis,” he insists, referring to a very pricey French restaurant.

“Your _parents_ took us _both_ out to Jean-Louis. You suck at wooing, Josh.”

“I’m gonna woo you so hard this summer you won’t know what hit you,” he says with some vehemence.

“As much as I appreciate the sentiment I don’t really need you to do that. You’ve made it this far without wining and dining me.”

“Fine, but we should do something special for when you get down here, like a graduation-slash-move-to-D.C.-slash-early-anniversary thing. And at least for one night I am going to woo your socks off. Your pants will be off, too.”

“Can’t you just romance me in our bed?”

“Believe me, there will be plenty of that.”

I squirm at the shift in pitch. “There had better be,” I say weakly.

Josh pauses, then I can almost _hear_ the slow smile I know is spreading across his face. “What are you wearing?”

It’s such a goddamned cliché of a line but I fall for it every time. “White oxford, jeans. Gray socks.”

“Underwear?”

“Briefs.”

“What color?”

“White.”

“Take off everything but the briefs.” Josh leaves no room for argument and my cock jumps in response. Ever since that weekend in February when I asked him to tie me up there’s been a subtle shift in our dynamic; while it was never in dispute that I’m by far the more submissive one, he’s become increasingly dominant and it drives me wild. I never thought I’d be so comfortable giving up this level of control to anyone, even someone I’m in love with, but my trust in Josh is absolutely unshakeable. He shows me in so many ways that he loves and cherishes me, and none of that is contradicted by those times when he treats me like a cheap slut whose sole purpose in life is to take his cock -- something that gets me far, far hotter than I’d ever admit to anyone (except him).

“Okay, hang on.” I gracelessly strip down to my underwear, palming my cock through the cotton as I put the receiver back to my ear. “What are _you_ wearing?”

“I’m still in my suit, or at least in part of it. Dark blue pants, dress shirt unbuttoned, and the tie is long gone.”

“Where are you?”

“Huh? At home, genius.”

“I mean where in the apartment?”

“The living room, on the couch.”

I like Josh in pretty much anything but I love when he’s all rumpled in his suit at the end of the day, and the thought of him sprawled on the couch -- our couch -- for me to touch and taste him makes my mouth go dry. “What would you do to me if I was there?”

“Mmm, let me see.” The muffled sound of a zipper catches my attention and Josh groans softly. “I’m already getting hard thinking about all the possibilities. Are you hard yet?”

“Uh-huh,” I manage to stammer.

“Rub yourself through the briefs, babe. God, I can picture how your cock looks straining against that white cotton. Shit, Sam…”

I shudder as I follow Josh’s directions and stroke my erection. “What would you do to me?” I ask again, the words sounding less like an inquiry and more like a plea for directions.

“I’ve got my cock out now and I’d get you on your knees in front of the couch.”

“Yes,” I hiss.

Josh laughs, low and rough. “Yeah, you like that. I’d press my dick against your soft pink lips, smearing precome on them, and you’d open for me because you’re gagging for it. You need my cock, don’t you?”

“ _Yes_.”

“You’ll be a good boy and let me fuck your pretty face, won’t you?”

“God, yes.” I hated it growing up when I was called pretty. I _love_ it when Josh calls me pretty. There’s no condescension behind it and he does it only rarely; it gets me every time.

“My beautiful Sam,” he purrs. “My pretty, pretty Sam. You were made to suck my dick, that gorgeous soft mouth looks amazing when it’s stretched to take every inch of me down your throat.” He lets out a jagged exhale. “Take off your briefs. I’ve got my cock out and I’m jerking it hard now, thinking about you. Get yourself off, let me hear it. Put your hand on that beautiful dick of yours and get yourself off.”

I peel off the last of my clothing and fumble for my trusty bottle of lotion, slicking my hand and working it over my shaft with a tried and true rhythm. “Would you come in my mouth, Josh? On my face?”

“In your mouth. And don’t you dare let a single drop escape.”

“I’d swallow it all,” I promise. “I’d suck you hard because you know I want your thick load in my mouth, I want to taste you.”

“Fuck, I’m close!” Josh grunts and I can hear the distant smacking sound of him beating off. “I’ve got you pulled all the way down on my dick now, your nose buried in my pubes.”

“I’m close, too. So close, Josh. Maybe I don’t even need to touch my cock, maybe I can come just from having you fuck my mouth and shoot your come down my throat.”

“I bet you _could_ come just from that.” His voice is getting raspier and I can picture him with his legs spread, cock jutting up between from his muscled thighs, sweat making his white undershirt cling to his perfect chest. “All you need is my hard, heavy cock pulsing between your lips and you would--”

“Josh! Fuck, Josh!” I arch up, driving my cock into the tunnel of my fist, and come everywhere. I’m floating back down from my high when I hear his choked cry and heavy gasps, and smile lazily at the thought of him lying there totally blissed out. “That was nice.”

“Nice?” He laughs weakly.

“More than nice. We’ve gotten pretty good at this, huh?”

“Good enough that these pants are going to have to go to the dry cleaner immediately.” Josh curses under his breath and I snort with laughter. “It’s almost too bad we’re going to be squandering our phone sex skills.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because you’ll be _here_ , Sam.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, my brain isn’t really functioning too well.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was intended as one.”

Josh chuckles. “I miss you a lot.”

“I miss you too, sweetheart. I love you.”

“Love you, too. And hey, it’s only ten days until I come to see you kick ass with your thesis defense.”

“Not ten days, Josh. Nine days and fourteen hours.”

“But who’s counting, right?”

“Shut up.”

“Ah-kay.”

I lie there with the phone pressed against my ear, neither of us talking for a minute or two. “Josh?” I say at last.

“Hmm?”

“I’m kinda sticky. I think maybe I’ll go clean myself up now.”

“Yeah, that might be a good idea for both of us. I’ll try to call you tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan. I love you,” I tell him again. I want to say, ‘don’t ever doubt that,’ but I don’t want to make things weird again.

“You already said that.”

“I felt like saying it again.”

“Ah-kay.” So much for not making things weird. I’m certain Josh saw right through that. “Nine days, thirteen hours, and fifty-five minutes. But I’ll call you sooner than that.”

“You better.”

“I will. Sam…” He huffs a laugh. “I’m so fucking amazed by what you’re doing. The job, the thesis -- it all drives home me how goddamned lucky I am to know you’re mine.”

I blush and clutch the phone tighter, Josh’s words cutting me to the quick. “Not bad when you think about how clueless I was when we met, huh?” I’m aiming for levity but the silence that stretches out in response makes my stomach drop. Did I say something wrong?

“Sam, you’ve been making me proud since the night you told me you were ready to come out.” The words are no less unequivocal for how quietly Josh says them. “You weren’t clueless, you were afraid. And you’re tougher than you ever give yourself credit for.”

“Yeah, well…” I take a steadying breath. “I can’t imagine I’d have done all this without you.”

“We make a good team.”

“The best.”

“Go get cleaned up. I should do the same.”

“Yeah, alright. You’ll call me?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll try like hell to call you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Josh.”

“Night, babe.”

The phone clicks and I sigh dejectedly. After maneuvering the receiver back into the cradle I go about cleaning up the mess on my stomach and thighs, glancing over at my desk and the picture of Josh that sits there. It’s from last summer, from our trip to Rehoboth Beach. Josh is wearing red swim trunks and a Yale Law tee, looking askance at the camera with a half-smirk dancing on his face while his hair flies in every direction imaginable. It’s not the most glamorous or even the most flattering photo I have of him but it never fails to make me smile. I can see his intelligence and humor and love all bound up in his brown eyes.

Two more weeks and I get to wake up next to him every day, go to sleep with him every night, and see all his emotions written in his eyes whenever I want. Two more weeks and I get to make my life with Josh, on our terms. Two more weeks and I’ll be home.


	18. June 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re not going to lose me the way you lost Joanie."

JOSH POV

There is a difference between an apartment and a home. It is perhaps a sentimental distinction but it is a real one. I moved into this place four months ago and it never felt like home until Sam officially moved in last week after graduating summa cum laude from Princeton – and successfully defending his thesis. The tiny place I had since moving to D.C. was great for a crash pad for a single guy or a guy whose boyfriend spent most of the year at college two hundred miles away; the idea of Sam moving his entire life into a glorified broom closet was not appealing to either of us. As it was I had barely enough room for myself. This new apartment has a bigger bedroom, an eat-in kitchen, and enough closet space for Sam’s expansive wardrobe. It’s closer to work, has great views, and feels all in all more like a ‘grown-up’ place to live. And now with boxes and suitcases of Sam’s possessions overflowing in every room as he continues to unpack all his crap from college and from his parents’ house in California, it’s a home.

His copies of Strunk & White’s _Elements of Style_ and Howard Zinn’s _A People’s History of the United States_ are propped up on the bookshelf next to my biographies of FDR and Alexander Hamilton. Photos of both our families are jumbled together on the bureau in the bedroom. Our suits and ties and coats hang side by side in the closet. Sam’s beloved teddy bear from childhood slumps against the book that has Joanie’s photo taped in the back pages. When the end of August comes around this year, none of it is going to be packed up and hauled away. He’s staying with me for good. No matter that it’s been something I’ve dreamed of since the day I watched him drive away from D.C. to Princeton that first time at the close of the summer of ‘84 I still can’t believe it’s going to be reality. His name is on the lease, and to me that’s as close as we might ever get to having our names bound together on a legal document. This home may not be permanent, but the knowledge that Sam and I share it means that we are permanent.

I’ll grudgingly admit I still have moments where I have a hard time wrapping my mind around that. Don’t get me wrong -- I never once questioned Sam’s sincerity when he’s told me how much he loved me, and I certainly never doubted that he meant it when he said he’d marry me. It’s more that I’m still shocked at times by the depth of what I feel for him and it scares me. It scares me because I know what it feels like to lose someone who’s such an integral part of you, and that’s a big reason why I spent years focusing on nothing more than having fun to the exclusion of any emotional attachment with another man. I’ll never really be over my sister’s death. I couldn’t stand it if I lost someone like that again.

If Sam ever needed proof of my devotion to him when we started dating, it would be that I told him about Joanie; if he needs any proof of it now, it would be that I’ve asked him to stay with me despite my own fears about experiencing another loss that profound. If it was anyone other than Sam I would have screwed myself over by driving them away and achieving that loss through my own slightly masochistic tendencies. What scares me is the chance that despite everything he’s promised Sam is going to get tired of me and find someone better. It’s a tiny, nasty fear that lurks in my mind; Sam knows about it because I stupidly told him at the end of our first summer together, and it’s been a point of contention ever since. Even when I proposed to him I pointed out he was only 21, and was that really old enough to know what he wanted for the rest of his life? He swears he knows this is forever. Sometimes hearing that still isn’t enough to vanquish that tiny, nasty fear. Sometimes what scares me isn’t that he’ll leave but that he could get sick. He could get hit by a car. He could be attacked by a mugger or a gay-basher or some maniac waving a gun.

Right now he’s safe and bundled under the blankets next to me as rain pelts the bedroom windows and the flash of lightning casts eerie shadows over his sculpted cheekbones. Meanwhile I’m trying to calm down after waking from a horrific dream. Nightmares are not anything new for me; for almost twenty years I’ve had dreams about the fire. For years I’d wake up and hear Joanie’s pleading screams echoing in my ear despite never actually hearing her cry for help that night I ran out of the house. What I dreamed about tonight is almost worse. I dreamed Sam was in the fire. It didn’t make any logical sense -- in my mind Joanie was there, frozen in time as a newly minted teenager a month removed from her bat mitzvah, and Sam was the age he is now, not the two-year-old he would have been the year this happened. Joanie got out. I got out, too, because I always run away. Sam didn’t get out. This time when I wake up, it’s Sam’s screams I’m hearing. This isn’t the first time I’ve had this particular nightmare. It started over a year ago and it won’t stop. I can’t make it stop.

Sam shifts beside me, mumbling something into the pillow, totally oblivious to my distress. He sleeps through thunderstorms and he sleeps through his boyfriend having a meltdown six inches away. That’s for the best. I slink down behind him and wrap him in my arms, spooning him tightly in a stupid attempt to keep him safe from what, exactly? My subconscious? Sam snuffles and I can _feel_ him slowly wake up. “Josh?”

“Yeah?” I will my voice to sound normal.

“You have another dream?”

“Why would you think that?”

“You’re clinging to me hard enough to leave bruises and I can feel your heart racing,” he murmurs. He runs his fingers over the arm that’s secured across his chest. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Do I ever?”

Sam pushes me away and sits up. “No, you don’t. You don’t _talk_ to me, Josh!”

“We talk all the time!”

“Not about this!”

“They’re stupid dreams, Sam!”

“Oh, that’s all they are?”

“You know what they’re about.”

“You can talk to me about this, sweetheart.”

I rub my hand over my face and close my eyes, determined not to give in. The last thing Sam needs is to know I’m having dreams about him dying. “It’s nothing,” I say tightly.

“Josh.”

“You know what they’re about!” I say again. “I run out and I leave someone I love behind to die!”

“You were seven years old, Josh. Barely seven. You were a child.”

“I know!”

“You didn’t make a conscious choice to--”

“I know!” I’m yelling now, the sound clashing with a rumble of thunder. He doesn’t even know this has nothing to do with Joanie anymore. I’m _terrified_ I’m going to lose Sam, even if it’s decades from now. He’s going to leave or die and I’m going to stand there paralyzed unable to stop it.

“Maybe you should see a therapist.”

“Oh yeah, psychobabble is really going to make this better.”

“You need to talk to someone about this!” He’s unyielding, not that I would expect anything less from him. “It doesn’t have to be me -- it can be your parents, a friend, a doctor, I don’t care. Please,” he says, softer, “I hate seeing you like this.”

“I’ll...I’ll try.”

“Do it for me if you can’t do it for you. It hurts me when you get like this and I can’t do anything to make it better.”

“You do make it better. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need you to apologize. I need you to stop acting like you never need anyone to support you! You’ve been there for me and you never let me be there for you. I need you to trust me enough to do that!”

The undisguised hurt in his words causes the bile to rise in my throat. I always fuck everything up somehow. “Sam, I…”

“Go to sleep, Josh.”

“No, wait!”

“Go to sleep.”

“I do trust you, Sam!”

“You don’t trust me. You’re scared I’m going to leave.”

“Sam--”

“It doesn’t hurt me to know you’re frightened or insecure or stupid, or some combination of all three,” he continues, ignoring my protest. “What hurts is knowing you won’t talk to me about it! Why the hell am I here if you can’t even do that much?”

“Because I’m…” I take a steadying breath and pull him to me again, relief washing over me when he doesn’t draw back. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

“I love you so much it scares me.”

“Why?”

“Not everyone is like you, Sam! Not everyone expects to fall in love and commit to someone for life. I didn’t want that before I met you!”

“It scares you?”

“It terrifies me! I thought...God, this is fucking stupid.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I thought if I didn’t let anyone in I couldn’t get hurt if they left.”

“Josh, I’m not leaving.” Another skein of lightning illuminates the room and I see his eyes fixed on me. “I’m not going to hurt you like that, I never would.”

“But what if--”

“There’s _no_ if. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I gasp, biting my lip hard to try and stem the hot prick of tears at my eyes.

“I’m only going to say this one more time, because if I have to say it again I’m going to be angrier than I’ve ever been in my life, understand?”

“Okay,” I say, dazed by the heat behind his words.

“I am not leaving. Ever.” Sam’s hand slips into mine, squeezing it hard. “Do you get that?”

“Yes.”

“Josh?”

“Yes!”

“Good. And I’m not going to let you push me away. I can’t spend the rest of our lives with you expecting me to wake up one day and walk out on you.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like? You have to tell me, Josh! I can’t figure everything out on my own.”

“I _know_ you’d never hurt me. Not intentionally.”

He shocks me by leaning in and kissing me, his hand on my chest resting over my heart. “You’re not going to lose me the way you lost Joanie,” he whispers. There are times when I hate how perceptive he is. This is not one of those times. He said the words because he knew I couldn’t.

“You don’t know that!” I choke out, the tears coming in a hot rush.

“I do know that. You’re stuck with me, Josh. You’re not getting rid of me and I’m not leaving you.”

“Sam, you can’t control everything! Sometimes things happen and you can’t stop them!”

This time he’s the one who wraps his arms around me, cocooning me in his embrace as I cry for the first time in years. The last time I lost it like this I was seven years old, my father clutching me for dear life as my mother wept next to us and the reality sunk in that Joanie was gone. That night there was the wail of sirens and the shouts of firefighters and neighbors, and the wasted platitudes of Dad trying to tell me it would be okay, that I was safe and he thanked God for that. Now all I hear is the relentless drumbeat of the rain and Sam’s breath, steady and comforting as it echoes in my ear.

“What happens in the dreams?” he asks at last.

“Sometimes Joanie can’t get out and I hear her…” My words break off on a sob. “And I just stand there, I can’t go back!”

“That’s what happened tonight?”

“No, she got out.”

“You were trapped?”

I cry harder. “ _You_ were trapped!” Sam’s arms clench me tighter and he kisses my forehead. “You were screaming and I couldn’t stop it!”

“And then you woke up,” he tells me. “And I was right here next to you. I’m _here_ , Josh. Let it out and cry as much as you need to, but I’m _here_.” He rocks me in a slow rhythm, one hand making sweeping circles on my back under my shirt and the other resting firmly on my side. His lips track over the tears on my face and he lets out a sigh before kissing me again. “Promise me you’ll talk to someone the next time this happens.”

“I’ll talk to you.”

“It doesn’t have to be me.”

“It does.” I draw a ragged breath and nestle my head in the crook of his neck. “This is the first time in 20 years I’ve talked to anyone about it.”

“You told me you talk to your parents.”

“Not really,” I admit. “Just the occasional, you know, like on Joanie’s birthday I’ll say I miss her. Or there’ll be a piece of classical music that reminds me of her and I tell them I heard it and they understand what I mean.”

“She liked classical music?”

It occurs to me that Sam knows nothing about Joanie, nothing other than the age difference and how she died. She deserves better than that. “Yeah, she loved it. Can I tell you about her?”

“I’d like that.” Sam’s fingers card through my hair and we both jump at a sudden clap of thunder.

“She wanted to be a conductor. She’d lock herself in her room when she studied sheet music because she knew I’d come and bug her. Eventually I figured out how to pick the lock. I never left her alone. The first time I picked the lock she threw something at my head to make me go away,” I say, amazing myself by laughing at the memory. “It didn’t work.”

“That’s not altogether surprising,” Sam chuckles.

“Her middle name was Rachel and she insisted that her friends call her Joan, not Joanie. Joanie was a little girl’s name, she always said. She was going to be a great conductor and have concerts at Carnegie Hall and then she’d marry Paul McCartney and move to London. She had it all mapped out. And I loved her so much, Sam. I thought she hung the moon and the stars, and when I made her laugh it was the greatest feeling in the world.” I clench my jaw. “I wish I could have her back for one day, just one goddamned day.”

“I know. I wish you could have that, too, for more than one day.”

“She’d be almost 33 now. Some days it pops into my head, wondering about where she’d be. Probably not married to a Beatle, but maybe she’d have a family. She’d have a _life_.” There’s a long silence. “Sam?”

“Hmm?”

“You still awake?”

“Yeah. I’m just thinking.”

“About what a basket case I am?”

“Stop that,” he scolds. “You’ve kept this inside for twenty years. It doesn’t make you crazy to let it all out now.”

“What were you thinking about?” I sidestep agreeing with his assessment.

“How do you think Joanie would feel about you taking the blame for this?”

I’m completely blindsided by the question. “Sam please, I can’t talk about that.”

“You told me about your nightmare, you told me what made Joanie special, and you won’t talk about this?” I ball my hands into fists, nails digging into the worn fabric of Sam’s tee-shirt. “You didn’t set the fire,” he continues. “You didn’t know that popcorn machine was going to malfunction, or that Joanie wasn’t right behind you when you fled the house.”

“I should have done something!”

“What would you have done?” he shouts. He pins me to the mattress and holds me in place. “If she was trapped somewhere do you honestly believe you would have been able to carry her to safety? She was twice your age! You’d be pinned down with her and you would have died. Your parents would have lost _both_ their children -- do you think that would have been better? You could not have saved her, Josh!” Sam stops yelling and gasps in a deep breath, his whole frame shuddering before his voice drops to barely a whisper. “It’s horrible beyond words and it’s unfair and it’s wrong, but none of it was your fault. If I have to tell you that every day for the next ten years I will. _It was not your fault_.”

I’m too exhausted to cry anymore. I pull Sam down on top of me, holding onto him like a lifeline as our limbs become entangled and our breaths mingle. “I love you,” I say in a soft, clear voice. “I love you so much.”

“Josh, if you need to hang on to one reason why you should have run out of that house, hang on to _this_. You told me once that Joanie would have liked me.”

“She would have,” I say automatically.

“Do you think she would have been happy that we’re together?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think she’d prefer it if we’d never met because you hadn’t run out of the house? Or that it’d be better if you hadn’t gone to Harvard or Yale or have worked on the Hill? You told me _I_ make everything better, but Josh…” He kisses me with infinite tenderness. “I don’t want to ever imagine what my life would be like without _you_ in it. And if Joanie was half the person you say she was, she wouldn’t want to imagine a world without you either.”

“I…”

“Tell me, sweetheart.”

“I’m tired.”

“I can imagine.” Sam shifts so he’s lying next to me, his head on my chest. “Try to get some sleep.”

“Sam?”

“Hmm?”

“I do trust you.”

“I know.”

“And you’re not going to leave.”

“Never.” Sam presses a kiss to my breastbone through my tee-shirt. “You asked me to be with you forever, and I said yes. Forever is what you’re going to get.”


	19. July 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Plenty of closet space,” Dad remarks.  
> “Yes, we thought that was nicely ironic.”

JOSH POV

“...and this is the living room.”

Dad stifles a chuckle as he looks around. “It’s very tidy, Joshua.”

“No kidding.”

“The last time I saw your living space this tidy you were an infant who wasn’t yet able to leave chaos in his wake everywhere you went.”

“I kind of like that -- leaving chaos in my wake. I should put that on my business cards.”

“I’m assuming Sam was in charge of getting the apartment ready for my appraisal.”

“He was a man on a mission,” I confirm. “I told him you’re only stopping by for a few minutes but he was determined.”

“That’s a good word for him,” Dad laughs. He’s in town for some Bar Association meeting and managed to find a few minutes between the meeting and his flight back to Connecticut to drop by and tour my new digs.

“He’s sorry he couldn’t get away from work to be here tonight. I told him you wouldn’t be upset.”

“I’m disappointed I won’t see him but I certainly understand.” My parents love Sam. _Love_ him. Hell, my Mom sent him care packages at Princeton. When Sam was struggling to define his relationship with his parents after coming out, Mom and Dad made it very clear from the first time they met him that he would have a family no matter what happened with Bill and Betty Seaborn. The fact that Sam’s parents have come full circle, even his mother, has in no way diminished the bond he’s created with my family. Dad peers at the magazines on the coffee table. “When did you start subscribing to _National Geographic_? I could never get you to read it as a kid!”

“I don’t read it. Sam does. He’s a nerd,” I say fondly.

“You’re something of a nerd yourself, Josh.”

“Not like Sam, trust me. Want to see the bedroom?”

“Lead the way.”

When I was thirteen I told my parents I was gay. I didn’t know anyone who was gay and I didn’t know if _they_ knew anyone who was gay. I couldn’t imagine they’d disown me but beyond that I was at a loss to anticipate their reaction. My dad is my touchstone: if he looks at me with pride then I know I’m doing something right even if I’m doubting myself, and if he looks at me with disappointment it’s enough to stop me in my tracks. The night I came out to my parents I didn’t see pride in Dad’s eyes -- that came later. All I saw was a ferocious love that assured me it would be alright. He hadn’t suspected anything, he admitted. It wasn’t on his radar screen to think his son could be gay. None of that mattered once I said the words, however; he was never going to stop loving me and so he pushed through his shock to give me total acceptance without missing a beat.

That first year at college when I grappled with being denied entry to fraternities and finals clubs, when I got called queer and fag and pretended it didn’t hurt even as it made me drift far enough off course that I missed the dean’s list both semesters of my freshman year and drank far more than could ever be good for me, Dad saved me without even realizing it when he clipped an article on Harvey Milk’s run for the San Francisco Board of Supervisors, mailing it to me with a note: _“Joshua -- amazing how things are changing. It makes me so hopeful for your future. Remember what Eleanor Roosevelt said: nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent. I am proud to be your father.”_ It was all I needed to hear.

“This is the master bedroom,” I say with a flourish. “It’s also the only bedroom.”

“Plenty of closet space,” Dad remarks.

“Yes, we thought that was nicely ironic.”

He laughs. “I walked into that one, didn’t I?” Dad tours the small room and I hold my breath as he looks at the collection of pictures on the bureau. “Joshua, where did you get this?”

“Grandma gave it to me years ago.” I go to stand next to him, watching him carefully as he looks at the photo of me and Joanie I’d kept hidden away between the pages of _The Velveteen Rabbit_ for so many years. All of the pictures my parents had of Joanie were lost in the fire; any pictures they have of her or of my early childhood were given to them by my maternal grandmother, who luckily had album upon album of family photographs.

“This was your birthday,” Dad says absentmindedly, tracing Joanie’s face with his index finger. “What were you, four?”

“Three.”

“You didn’t have this picture anywhere I saw in your old place.”

“It was in a book. I didn’t have many pictures of anyone at my last apartment but this is...I don’t know, it’s different. Sam said we’re making a life here together, and Joanie’s always going to be a part of my life no matter how long it’s been since…” The words tumble out in a rush.

His hand settles on my shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. “I think it’s good you have her picture.” His voice is thick, his gaze shifting to mine. “I think it’s a very good thing. Your mother and I were never able to get you to talk about Joanie after we lost her. I feel like we should have tried harder.”

I slump down on the bed, staring at my hands. “Wouldn’t have worked. I wasn’t ready.”

“You are now?”

“Maybe. It still hurts to talk about.”

“It probably always will,” Dad says, picking up the picture frame and studying the image again before setting it back in place and joining me on the bed. He looks so old all of a sudden, far older than his 62 years. “I thank God every day you got out of that house, Josh. I wouldn’t have survived if both of you had…” He clears his throat. “I’m glad you’re talking about this.”

“Sam’s been pushing me to open up about it.”

“Mom and I tried to talk to you about this for twenty years and it only took him two to get through?” The gentle note of teasing comes through clearly.

“Like I said before, he’s a very determined kind of guy.” I sag slightly against Dad, smiling as he drapes an arm over my shoulder. “Joanie would have liked him. I’m sure of it.”

“I imagine she would, yes. She adored you, she would want you to be happy.”

“I’m very happy.”

“I know.” There’s a brief lull. “Josh, can I ask you something about Sam?”

“Sure.”

“It’s about his thesis, really.”

“Ah-kay.” I have a feeling where this might be headed.

“I’m not a Constitutional scholar but his reasoning seemed very sound to me. Granted it’s bound to upset some people, the very notion of…” He lets his hand drop from his shoulder and adjusts his jacket cuffs, a telltale nervous habit. “What I’m saying is, when my son’s boyfriend writes a fantastic argument in support of expanding civil rights to allow gay people to marry, I suppose it begs the question of if it’s something you two have spoken about even in the abstract.”

“Well, it _is_ only abstract.” The bitterness seeps through my words despite my best efforts.

“I know,” Dad says quietly. “I’m asking because you never used to bring anyone you dated home, I never heard about any boyfriend lasting for more than a month, and with Sam it’s been two years. You’re not only living together, you are -- as you said -- making a life together.”

“We’re committed to one another.” The bloodless phrase feels like dust in my mouth. “We’re...we feel married but we can’t get married. When we went on that beach trip last year I said I’d marry him if I could.” I let out a harsh laugh. “We both knew the proposal couldn’t lead to anything formal and it hurts like crazy to think about that. But he said yes anyway. I’m planning on this being forever, Dad.”

“That was the response I was hoping for. He’s so good for you, Josh – that was evident the first time I met him. And I imagine the passion behind his thesis comes from knowing he plans on this being forever, too.”

“He does. We do.”

“I hope the day comes when you can make this official.” I stare at him in shock. Dad’s always been great about this -- he could write a book on how to support a child who’s coming out -- but he’s also very traditional in a lot of ways. “You look surprised,” he says with a laugh. “Joshua, I’m very happy you’re settling down after bedding all those other men.”

I blush like crazy. “Dad! What are you talking about?”

“Leo mentioned that you’d had relations with a number of—”

“Why was he talking about my sex life with my father?!” I exclaim.

“Because he cares about you and was extremely frightened when you needed to get tested last year. I’m sure he’ll never admit that out loud, but I know Leo. I called him to give my thanks for his help and he got flustered and it slipped out that you had told him...well, I suppose I had an inkling you had taken several men to bed before Sam but never gave it much thought.”

“Can we keep it so you’re not giving it much thought?”

“What I’m saying is that I don’t much care how many bedrooms you spent your time in as long as you ended up with the person who’s right for you, and that you’re healthy as well as happy.”

I let out a slow exhale. “I’m lucky, in more than one way.”

“Yes,” he says quietly.

“How much time do you have before you need to get a cab to Dulles?”

“About 45 minutes.”

“Want me to make some coffee?”

Dad’s face relaxes into an easy grin. “Thought you’d never ask.”

We settle at the kitchen table with mugs of coffee and while Dad initially rolls his eyes when I dig out a box of Oreos as the only snack I can offer, he eventually caves and takes two cookies for himself. After the seriousness of our earlier conversation we try to keep the banter light, discussing a little politics and a lot of baseball. He says he’s deferring to Mom in planning their trip down here for Independence Day weekend and that he’s glad they’ll be meeting Sam’s parents. A comment about how he wants to take Leo to dinner during the trip “to see how he’s doing,” with no mention of inviting Mom or Jenny, makes me wonder if everything’s okay. I put that question to Dad and he shakes off my concern, but I suspect the issue is Leo’s drinking -- like that mid-morning Scotch when I visited his office last year, or the constantly-refilled glasses of wine when he took me and Sam to dinner to celebrate my boyfriend’s graduation and new job. I choose not to delve further. If anyone can help Leo, it’s Dad.

Eventually it’s time for him to leave and I walk him to the curb, scanning the horizon for a yellow cab. My dad’s sudden cry of “hey!” makes me whirl around and see that the reason for Dad’s exclamation is Sam jogging up the block towards us.

“Oh good, I managed to catch you for at least a minute,” he pants as he reaches us.

“Sam, you didn’t have to rush here from work to see me,” Dad chides affectionately. “Although I am glad to see you even if it’s only a few seconds.” He shakes Sam’s hand with a wide smile. “It’s a nice home you and Josh have made for yourselves. I got the grand tour, and I appreciate that you took the time to clean it up because God knows my son wouldn’t have done so on his own.”

“Dad,” I whine.

“Don’t whine, Josh,” he says reflexively. “Sam, I would love to stay and chat but I have to take a rain check so I can make my flight.”

“I understand, sir.”

Dad rolls his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me--”

“Noah, right.” Sam blushes. “You can get that rain check when you and Clara visit in a few weeks.”

“Excellent, I look forward to it.”

Sam steps off the curb and waves. “Hey, there’s a cab!”

“See, _he_ found a cab,” Dad teases me.

“Have a safe flight, Dad,” I say, swallowing my smartass rejoinder. He embraces me and claps Sam on the shoulder before getting in the cab. “It was nice of you to get over here to say hi,” I remark to Sam as we walk into the apartment building.

“I wish I could have gotten here sooner.”

“He understands, trust me. He’s used to my work schedule and he gets that your job is no less demanding than mine.”

“I know he understands, but I still would have liked to see him for more than 90 seconds.”

“You guys have quite the mutual admiration society going, you know.”

“Your dad is a great guy, Josh,” Sam tells me, digging out his key to unlock the apartment door. “Both your parents are great.”

“It’s hard to believe you were so terrified to meet them.”

“Hey, you were nervous to meet _my_ parents.”

“Hardly.”

Sam smirks and chooses not to call me out on the lie. “What do you think will happen when they all meet in a few weeks?”

“Your mother and my mother will probably compete to see who can tell the most embarrassing stories about the sons they raised.”

“Odds are pretty good your mom will win that contest.”

“Excuse me?”

“Josh, you wanted to be a ballerina. The mental picture alone is the epitome of hilarity.”

“I never actually, like, wore tights or anything! I just liked the word!”

“Uh-huh.”

I pull him in and kiss the obnoxious grin off his face. “I’m convinced you and my mom are in cahoots. Isn’t there some unwritten rule that you’re not supposed to be close to your mother-in-law?” Sam’s face lights up at my little slip of the tongue. “That’s pretty much what she is, right?”

“I suppose that’s what she is, yeah. Your family has become my family.”

My arms tighten around his waist, keeping him close. “ _You’re_ my family.”

Sam’s lips curve against my neck and I can picture the brilliance of a smile I can’t see. “You’re mine, too.”


	20. July 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s something oddly arousing about being pinned down and fucked in total darkness, as if this was some secret tryst we needed to keep hidden rather than yet another tumble between the sheets with my long-term boyfriend.

SAM POV

“Did we just lose power?”

“You’re a Fulbright Scholar and you had to ask that question?”

“Hey!”

“Josh, the apartment is mired in sudden darkness and it looks like the streetlights are knocked out, too. What could it be other than a power failure?”

“Extraterrestrials attacking?”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Shit. I guess I’m not going to finish reading this report.”

“We should go to bed.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost 11:00, I think.”

“You can’t be more specific?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t see my watch, Josh!”

“Jeez, no need to snap at me.”

I shoot him a dirty look then remember he wouldn’t know if I’m glaring at him or not. “Let’s go to bed.” I shuffle to the bedroom and--

*THUNK*

“Motherfucker!”

“Sam?!”

“Ow!”

“Shit, you hurt?” Josh picks me up and helps me hobble over to the bed, setting me down gingerly.

“No, I was screaming in pain for the hell of it. Of course I’m hurt!”

“You really get snippy when we lose power.”

“I get ‘snippy,’ as you so charitably phrased it, when I walk into a doorjamb and stub my toe.” I flex my big toe, wincing. “It’s not broken.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve broken my toes before.”

“Of course you have,” he says under his breath.

“I heard that!”

“Honestly Sam, you should be shrouded in bubble wrap at all times.”

“That sounds kind of kinky.”

Josh snorts and digs around blindly for the flashlight we keep in a safety box under the bed. “You okay to stay here while I get you some ice?”

“I’ll manage, thanks.”

“Shit.”

“What?”

“Batteries in the flashlight are dead.”

I sigh and flop against the pillows. “Forget the ice. It doesn’t hurt that much anyway.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Josh’s figure is silhouetted against the window but I can’t see his face. I really wish I could see his face. “Come here.”

“Huh?”

“Very eloquent.” I tug him down and kiss him.

“What was that for?”

“I need a reason?”

“Guess not.” Josh initiates the kiss this time, tongue slipping past my lips and sighing as I slide my hands under his shirt.

“The question is,” I murmur as I break away to strip off his shirt and mine, “can you find the lube in total darkness?”

“Yes. Yes, I can do that.” Josh sounds so deadly serious about this challenge that I almost laugh. “Stay there.”

“Where would I go?”

“Just stay there and be quiet.” I snicker as I hear the nightstand drawer yanked open and Josh’s muttered curses. “Aha!”

“Got it?”

“Yes. Roll over.”

“Seriously, Josh?!”

“What?”

“‘Roll over’? What, no romance?”

He ignores me and yanks off my sweatpants and boxers, then maneuvers me onto my stomach. Bracing myself on my forearms I moan as he lays a string of soft kisses down the length of my spine, muttering, “fucking gorgeous” as he cups my ass with both hands and spreads me open.

“You can’t even see me,” I protest.

“I don’t have to see you to know you’re gorgeous.”

I smile against the cool pillow and push my ass back against him. “Get on with it.”

“What, no romance?” he teases. “I say you’re gorgeous and you tell me to get on with it.” He flicks his tongue over my hole twice then kisses it.

“Josh,” I plead. “Please, Josh!” I am so far beyond being ashamed of begging when it comes to this particular activity -- or pretty much any activity that involves Josh’s mouth. Or his hands. Or his cock. His tongue enters me, slick and firm as he wraps an arm around my waist and holds me still so he can give me a fantastic rim job. My cock is at full mast now, brushing against Josh’s forearm and twitching as he curls his tongue and does something particularly wicked that leaves me gasping. I’m about to beg for more when his tongue retreats and two fingers follow, stretching and scissoring and touching all the right places to open me up without providing enough stimulation. Josh loves to tease and keep me on edge, and the payoff is always worth it.

He shifts behind me and moves his arm so he can grab my cock with one hand while lubing his own erection with the other. “You good?” he asks as the blunt head of his dick presses against my hole. After two years he knows my body well enough to know the answer to his own question but I love that he wants to be sure.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

I gasp at the pressure from the penetration, even with the prep he gave me, and thank God that Josh reads me well enough to know it’s not a sign to pause for even a second. He slides all the way in, grunting as he bottoms out inside me, his heavy sac pressed against my ass and his fingers squeezing the base of my dick to keep me from getting off too soon. My face is buried in the pillow but turning my head to the side doesn’t give me much more visibility thanks to the blackout. It’s true what people say about how your body compensates with other senses heightened when one is taken away; the smell of sex is stronger than usual, the sounds filling my ears are all but deafening -- the creak of the bedsprings, the smack of Josh’s flesh as he rams his cock into me over and over, and his breathy moan as I clench around him. My own shaky cry bounces off the walls as he jerks me off, smearing my precome on his fingers to ease his way.

Neither of us will last very long at this rate and I don’t care. I’m consumed by the thickness of his cock as it fills me to the hilt on every thrust, overwhelmed by his breath ghosting over the back of my neck, driven wild by the rhythm of his skilled fingers on my erection. A few minutes ago I wanted desperately to see Josh’s face before I kissed him, but now the darkness has become its own turn-on. There’s something oddly arousing about being pinned down and fucked in total darkness, as if this was some secret tryst we needed to keep hidden rather than yet another tumble between the sheets with my long-term boyfriend. I figure I’ll analyze that part later because I’m too busy getting my ass reamed by Josh’s dick and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to focus on anything else.

Josh climaxes first, his body going rigid behind mine as he slams home and fills me with his load, laughing breathlessly as I whimper and clench my ass to try and keep his softening erection inside me. Keeping me in position he kneels behind me again and slides his tongue back into my body, licking his come from my ass while his thumb presses the spot under the crown of my cock that makes me see stars. I shout his name and shoot my own release over his fingers and onto the sheets, then sag against the mattress not caring about the wet spot as he continues to lap at my trembling hole until it’s too sensitive and I reach back to swat him away.

“Had enough?” His voice is rough and tired, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Your mouth is the eighth wonder of the world,” I mumble.

He snorts and kisses the back of my thigh. “I maintain your ass qualifies for that title as well. How’s your toe?”

I roll onto my back with some effort and smile as Josh takes my foot into his lap, gently prodding the bruise. “I might hobble a little tomorrow but nothing too bad. Being on my hands and knees may not have been the best idea, now that I think about it.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t think--”

“Oh, hush. I would have stopped you if it was really hurting.” I urge him to lie down next to me, humming happily as he kisses me, wet and deep and vaguely obscene as I taste both of us on his tongue.

“With our luck the power will go back on at 2:00 a.m. and all the lights will wake us up,” Josh sighs.

“That’s better than if the power doesn’t go back on at all until after our alarm clock is supposed to go off.”

“Shit.”

“You said it.”

“Maybe we could try to stay awake all night to be safe.”

“I gave up all-nighters when I graduated.”

“Yes, because you’re so old and run-down now,” he teases, pulling on a lock of my hair.

“Ow. And shut up.”

“Ah-kay.”

His breathing evens out after a few minutes lying there, neither of us bothering to get dressed again. I like sleeping naked and I’m quite fond of Josh sleeping naked, so this works out well for me. “Josh?”

“Mmmfff.”

“You awake?”

“Kind of.”

I nuzzle his neck and grin. “I liked being fucked in complete darkness.”

“Yeah?” Yup, he’s awake.

“Maybe next time you tie me up you could blindfold me.”

“...yeah.”

“Just a thought.”

“It’s a good thought,” he says breathlessly.

“I figured you’d like that idea.”

“ _Like_ it? Jesus, Sam...one of these days you’re going to be the death of me.”

I laugh. “But what a way to go, huh?”

Josh holds me close and I know his eyes are dancing with laughter even if I can’t see. “Yeah. It might almost be worth it.”


	21. August 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All day I’ve been fixated on the mental picture of Josh in a hospital bed, Josh with Kaposi’s Sarcoma, Josh being shunned by almost everyone he knew because he had ‘gay cancer.’ I can picture his parents, devastated at his funeral. I can picture a thousand horrible things that might very well have happened to him had he not been blessed with the blind, stupid luck that kept him safe.

JOSH POV 

“Congressman Brennan’s office, this is Josh Lyman.” Damn it I am _this close_ to finishing work on this paper. Whoever’s calling better have a very good reason.

“Josh, it’s Amy.”

“Hey!”

Amy Gardner drives me up a fucking wall but she’s a hell of a lot of fun. We met through my roommate at Harvard; their romance was combative, as Amy is combative with _everyone_ , and once I got over my annoyance at my studies being interrupted by earth-shattering fights I started to enjoy her presence and kept in closer touch with her than Chris after we all graduated. She moved down here earlier this year to work for NARAL and we’ve grabbed a few cups of coffee when our busy schedules permitted it.

“I’d ask if I’m interrupting something but I’m pretty sure that’s a given.”

“Yeah, you are. I can spare you about three minutes.”

“Thanks, Josh. You’re a real giver.”

“I do my best.”

“Listen, do you have any free time today? Even ten minutes? I’d like to talk to you about something face-to-face. You name the coffee shop and I can be there.”

“Uh…” I grab my date book. “How about 7:30? No, 8:00 is safer. There’s that place Cup of Joe on H Street.”

“Great. Terrific.” Her monotone contradicts those words and I frown.

“Amy, you okay?”

“Fine! Just want to chat with you about something. It’ll be quick.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“8:00 then,” she says.

“8:00.” There’s a sudden dial tone and my concern deepens. Amy may have some aggravating qualities but being intentionally vague is not one of them. If anything she’s direct to a fault. Instead of hanging up the phone I call Congresswoman DeSantis’ office and ask if Sam is free.

“This is Sam Seaborn.”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey!”

“Listen, I’m going to be home late tonight.”

“That position paper still kicking your ass?”

“No, I’m almost done with it. You know my friend Amy Gardner? The one from Harvard, the one who works with NARAL?”

“Right, you’ve mentioned her.”

“She called and asked if I’m free tonight for a few minutes. I don’t know...she sounded anxious. I feel like I should make the time. I’ll be home by 10:00 at the latest.”

“Go ahead. I can heat up that leftover pasta and watch _Nova_.”

“You’re the best.”

“I know,” Sam laughs.

***********************************************************************************************************************

I get to Cup of Joe ten minutes early and Amy’s already there, tucked in a booth at the back corner fiddling with a cup of coffee and not touching her slice of pie. Amy’s got a hell of a sweet tooth; whatever’s going on must be pretty bad if she’s too distracted to eat a dessert sitting right in front of her. She doesn’t even see me walk in so I take a minute to grab my own coffee before sliding into the booth; her head jerks up at my sudden appearance and my stomach drops further as I see how nervous she looks.

“‘Sup?” I ask, flashing what I hope is a reassuring smile.

“Hi there.” Amy looks me over once, then twice before taking a sip of her coffee.

“How’s work?”

“Challenging. Rewarding. Exhausting. How’s yours?”

“About the same. Can I pilfer some of that pie?”

She pushes the plate toward me and slumps against the back of the bench. “How’s your boy toy? Did he finally graduate college?”

“Yeah, summa cum laude from Princeton.”

“No need to brag.”

I grin. “He’s working as a speechwriter for Carol DeSantis.”

“Oh, she’s good on women’s rights.”

“Yup,” I mumble around a mouthful of blueberry pie. “We need to find a night where we can all grab dinner together. You’d like him. What about you, any new man you’re planning to geld?”

“Very funny, J.” But there’s a spark of amusement in her eyes, much to my relief. “No, I’m happily single.”

“So what’s going on? What’s the sudden crisis?” I hold up a hand when she opens her mouth to protest. “Amy, come on. You don’t usually call me up out of the blue for an urgent heart-to-heart.”

“Fine. Fine.” She runs her hand through her long hair then lets it drop into her lap. “Do you remember that week about six years ago when Chris had a bunch of people over to his parents’ summer house in New Jersey?”

“Sure I do.” It was a few weeks after graduation and I was a month away from going to England for my Fulbright year; I borrowed my dad’s car and drove from Connecticut to Cape May for six days at this gigantic beach house with a handful of other friends from Harvard and two or three guys Chris knew from high school.

“Do you remember Chris’ friend Dave?”

“The blond guy who went to Kenyon? What was his name, Dave McGregor?”

“Dave McPherson. He was the one you ended up sharing a bed with for practically the whole week.”

“I seem to recall that, yes.”

“He died.”

The abruptness of the statement causes me to drop my fork, jumping at the loud clattering sound it makes as it hits the plate. “He died?”

“Last week. It was...it was AIDS-related pneumonia.” I think I might actually throw up. “Josh, have you been tested?” Amy whispers.

“Yes.”

“You have?”

“Yes. I tested negative last year. I have a printout of my test results. I’m negative.” My hands are shaking and I curl them into fists, pounding one against the bench. “He must have been infected after we…”

“That’s what he told Chris, he thought he contracted the virus from some guy he dated in ’81. That guy died a year ago and Dave got tested and…well, my ex-boyfriend is a chickenshit so he dumped this into my lap because he thought you should hear it in person. Even if Dave _thought_ he was infected a year after you two spent that week together there was still a chance he had the virus earlier, or maybe...shit, I don’t want to say this, but maybe _you_ had it and gave it to him. I don’t know.” Amy glances around nervously. “Listen, Dave didn’t tell Chris he had the virus until a week before he died. Chris wanted to make sure that you knew that you were at risk.”

“Oh, well please thank him for his concern,” I snap. “It’s certainly not like I hadn’t known I was at risk before tonight, but thanks for telling me. I like to be reminded of my own mortality every so often so I can recognize how stupidly lucky I got and feel guilty about the guys who didn’t share my good fortune. It’s pure chance that he died and I didn’t, and we both know that.” I grab my wallet and toss a few bucks on the table. “That covers what I ate of your pie, right?”

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Home.” I stand up and storm out of the coffee shop, not realizing until I’m two blocks away that I’m shaking uncontrollably.

***********************************************************************************************************************

“Where the hell have you been?!” Sam jumps to his feet as I enter the apartment, almost tripping over the coffee table.

“Out.”

“Out where? Josh, it’s 2:00 in the morning! I didn’t know where you were, I couldn’t call Amy because she’s not listed in the phone book. I was about to call the police!”

“Sam, could you stop with the hysterics?” I toss my keys on the table and kick off my shoes, walking into the bedroom to undress.

“This isn’t me being hysterical!” he shouts, following me. “If you want to hear that, you can keep acting like it’s no problem that you disappeared for the night. ’10:00 at the latest,’ you said. ‘I’ll be home by 10:00.’”

“Can you fucking drop it? I’m exhausted and we can talk in the morning.”

“It _is_ the morning!” Sam grabs my shoulder and I knock his arm away. “Josh!”

I fold my arms over my chest and glare. “What?”

“Where were you?”

“I went for a walk. Walked to the Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial, all around the Mall.”

“At midnight?”

“I needed to clear my head.”

Sam’s expression softens and he places a hand on my shoulder again. “Is your friend okay? What did she need to talk to you about?”

I swallow hard and try to push down the rising pressure in my throat. “A guy named Dave McPherson died last week. I didn’t know him very well, he was a friend of Amy’s ex, my roommate at Harvard.”

“What happened to him?”

I look everywhere other than Sam’s face. “Pneumocystis pneumonia.”

“AIDS?”

“Yes.” I push away from him and strip off my pants, falling into bed in my boxers and undershirt with my dress shirt still half-on.

Sam walks over to the bed, halting before sinking down next to me. “How, exactly, did you know him?”

“Do you want me to treat you like an idiot, Sam? I think you’ve figured out how I knew him.” When he doesn’t speak I keep talking, unable to let any silence stand when I’m this worked up. “Chris said he thinks this guy, Dave, got infected a year after I slept with him. That’s what Dave told him, anyway. And I tested negative. I tested negative, so…”

Sam takes my hands and squeezes them. “God, you’re shaking.” He kisses my cheek. “Josh, you did test negative. I’ve seen a copy of your test results. You’re fine, you got lucky and you don’t need to worry about this.”

“It could have been me,” I say shakily. “It probably _should_ have been me.”

“Don’t say that! We’re back to this?”

“This isn’t survivor’s guilt, Sam! I’m talking about the odds. I’ve fucked enough guys that--” I stop talking abruptly, remembering too late that this is one thing Sam absolutely, positively does not want to hear about. “Never mind. Never mind, just forget that. I need some sleep.”

“I think we both do,” he says, slightly dazed.

I hug him close and kiss his temple. “I’m sorry I scared you. I was upset and I didn’t think. I lost track of time, that’s all.”

“It’s okay.” It doesn’t sound okay but I have no energy to pursue this conversation any further. “Here,” Sam mutters, stripping off my button-down shirt, “take this off before you wrinkle it any further by sleeping in it.”

“Thanks.” I move to drop a kiss on his lips; he turns his head and I catch his cheek instead. “Sam?”

“I’m going to brush my teeth. Lie down, would you?”

My head hits the pillow and I try to keep my eyes open as I listen to Sam brush his teeth. I reach for him as he pads back to bed but my fatigue is too heavy and I slip into oblivion.

***********************************************************************************************************************

Whatever hope I had that this morning would be better than last night is blown to pieces when the alarm goes off at 6:00 and Sam is already out of bed. To my relief he’s still in the apartment, sitting at the kitchen table and staring at his bowl of Cornflakes as if it holds the secrets of the universe.

“Good morning,” I offer.

“Morning.”

“I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Okay.”

“Did you make coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Ah-kay…”

“Go take your shower, Josh.”

I leave him alone, showering and dressing before returning to the kitchen and pouring myself some coffee. “Aren’t you going to shower?”

“I’m fine. I’m already dressed, in case you didn’t notice. I showered last night.”

“You never shower at night.”

“I was going out of my mind with worry, I had to distract myself somehow.”

“Sam, I’m really sorry about that.” I grab his hand, encouraged when he doesn’t pull away. “I should have stopped at a payphone to call you. I was...I was out of my mind, too. Just for a different reason.”

“Yeah. Well, whatever.” He stands up and drops his cereal bowl in the sink. “Listen, I need to talk to you about what you told me.”

“Do you want me to get tested again? I can’t imagine it was wrong and I think if I was infected there’d be visible symptoms at this point, but if it would make you feel safe I would do it.”

“No, Josh -- I’m not worried that your test results were a false negative. It’s...it’s the other thing you said.”

“What other thing?”

“That you didn’t know this guy very well.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “I didn’t, really. He was Chris’ friend. A couple of us spent a week at a beach house and, you know, stuff happened.”

“Did you do that a lot?”

“Do what?” I stand up, knowing full well he’s baiting me.

“Sleep with guys you didn’t know well.”

“You know the answer to that, Sam. I’ve implied a few times that I slept around before we met.”

“How much did you sleep around?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Why not?”

I laugh with disbelief. “Why not? Because you’re going to get upset and I don’t have the energy for that.”

“It’s a simple question, Josh. I’m already upset so can you answer the question?”

“This is ridiculous. What does it matter? I’m with _you_ now, I have been for two years and I have no intention of being with anyone else. All the other shit is in the past!”

“I want to know!”

“Sam!”

“How many other guys?” he shouts. “Give me the fucking number!”

“33!” I shout back. The look on his face is pure shock, and whatever number he expected me to give had to be much lower than that.

“Are you serious? How did you...33!”

“33,” I tell him again, my anger rising. “You’re number 34.”

“What the hell made you think it was a good idea to sleep with that many guys?”

“Why would it be a bad idea?” I snap back, my temper getting the better of me.

“Because it is! Do you know how colossally stupid and dangerous that was? How many guys did you fuck without protection?”

I swallow hard around the lump of fear in my throat. Yes, I tested negative. No, that doesn’t mean I’m not still paralyzed by knowing how easily I could have been infected. “24,” I tell him.

“24,” he echoes faintly.

“That’s why I always insisted on condoms until I was able to get tested. I _never_ would have done anything to put you at risk.”

“Except fucking two dozen guys bareback.”

“That was before I met you!” I scream, furious that he’d imply I deliberately risked his health.

“That’s not the point!”

“AIDS wasn’t recognized as a threat when I started having sex, Sam! As soon as I knew enough to take precautions against it, I did so immediately! You know that!”

“I do,” he concedes. “But still, 33 guys? I can’t believe you were that promiscuous!”

“Why does this matter? We both know I tested negative, and we both know I stopped sleeping around after I met you! Give me one good reason why this matters!”

“It just does!”

“Is it that I took guys to bed when I barely knew them that offends you? Because I seem to remember a certain intern who begged me -- _begged me_ \-- to take his virginity after we’d only known each other a few days.”

Sam recoils. “That was different!”

“How?”

“I was already in love with you!”

“Tell yourself whatever you want so you can feel superior. It’s bullshit, and you know it. You can be such a smug asshole when you want to be.”

His expression hardens and he grabs his suit jacket. “I have to go to work.”

“Do whatever the hell you want, Sam. I don’t care.” I wait until the front door slams behind him before hurling my coffee mug against the wall.

***********************************************************************************************************************

SAM POV

I fully realize that this is a crisis of my own making. I asked Josh the question after he tried like hell to wave me off; I expected him to answer honestly and he did. And yes, I knew on some level that he had slept with a number of other guys. But 33? He went to bed with 33 different men before me? I always assumed the number would be more like...six. Maybe nine or ten at the outside. If he lost his virginity at 17 and met me at 24, that’s approximately five guys a year during that period. And then the other bombshell -- 24 of them were before he used condoms. Even though he’s told me he started using condoms as soon as he knew enough about AIDS to protect himself, I feel irrationally angry. It‘s a miracle he tested negative. It really _could_ have been him who died instead of this other guy, and I’m angry because it’s easier than being terrified of the reality that Josh somehow dodged that bullet.

_"I’m talking about the odds,"_ he told me. 

24 different partners with whom he shared unprotected sexual contact. I can tell myself not to obsess about this but it won’t do any good. The simple truth is that I’m deeply shaken by how easily Josh could have contracted HIV. And it’s not because I’m scared that he would have infected me despite his fastidious insistence on using protection at all times before he took the ELISA test; it’s because I think about how I might not have met him to begin with. All day I’ve been fixated on the mental picture of Josh in a hospital bed, Josh with Kaposi’s Sarcoma, Josh being shunned by almost everyone he knew because he had ‘gay cancer.’ I can picture his parents, devastated at his funeral. I can picture a thousand horrible things that might very well have happened to him had he not been blessed with the blind, stupid luck that kept him safe.

The worst part is I know Josh imagined those things too, and instead of supporting him when he came home deeply shaken I acted like a jealous, insecure jerk. I spent all day pissed at him and when I got home I was ready to continue the fight because it’s easier than having to face the enormity of picturing a life where I never got to meet Josh Lyman. It’s not until the clock slowly ticks away and it inches closer to 9:00 p.m. that I realize he’s angrier with me than he’s ever been. By 9:30 I’m cursing my idiocy and hoping to God things aren’t fucked up to the degree I suspect. I call his office and get no answer. I call Matt and get his answering machine, hanging up before I can leave a message that will undoubtedly sound pathetic. ( _“Hi, Matt -- this is Sam. I’m a total fuckhead and I was wondering if you knew where I could find the boyfriend I’ve alienated.”_ )

The doorbell rings and I look through the peephole, hoping it’s Josh ringing the bell because he’s too drunk to find his keys. That’s my best-case scenario at the moment. But no, it’s not Josh. It’s some dark-haired woman I’ve never seen before, and I open the door hoping she’s not a knife-wielding maniac or a Jehovah’s Witness. “Can I help you?”

“You’re a schmuck, you know that?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re Sam, right?” She storms into the apartment and plants her hands on her hips, giving me a venomous glare.

“I am. Who are you?”

“Amy Gardner.”

“Ah.” This is not going to be pleasant.

“I’m going to give you a piece of advice which you definitely don’t deserve, which is that when Josh gets home you should just drop to your knees and grovel for a while.”

My hackles rise instantly. It’s one thing for me to be pissed at myself, but this girl doesn’t even know me. “I don’t know what Josh told you, but he--”

“Josh is currently in my apartment because he didn’t know where else he could go. He didn’t want to be here, for obvious reasons, and he didn’t want anyone else to know _why_ he was upset, for which I can’t blame him. This kind of thing is not something you slip into conversation, especially not in this town where gossip is currency. Secondly, for some reason he seems to love you a lot and he’s hurt and angry by your reaction to this news was to demand his sexual history to do what, exactly? Shame him? Drive home the point that he’s exceedingly lucky to not be lying in a hospital bed or worse? I’d really like to know what the fuck you were thinking!”

“I wasn’t thinking,” I mumble.

“Yeah, no shit!”

“Where’s your apartment? I want to go see him.”

“He’ll come home when he’s ready. Seriously, I’d let him be until he wants to talk to you again, which won’t be tonight. I came here to pick up some clothes for him. Where’s the bedroom?” I point dumbly and follow her as she grabs a tote bag and fills it with a clean dress shirt and tie. “Is this his underwear drawer or yours?”

I step past her and pull out a pair of blue checked boxers and some socks, stuffing them in the bag. “Can you please tell him I’m sorry? Tell him if he wants I’ll come over there and talk to him.”

“I can do that.” Amy scrutinizes me closely. “I doubt he’s breaking up with you, if that’s your fear.”

“I’m not afraid of that.” She arches an eyebrow and I surprise myself by laughing. “That didn’t enter my mind. We’re…” _Married_ , I want to say. “We’re very committed. He has every right to be angry at me but I know he’s not going to leave because he’s angry.”

“You know,” she says slowly, “I’ve known him a long time. Since freshman year of college.”

“I do know that.”

“He _did_ fuck around a lot.” She studies me for a reaction and I refuse to give her one. “I mean, _a lot_.”

“Your point being?”

“Josh is an attractive guy who always got a lot of offers and he didn’t make apologies for who he was or what he wanted. He didn’t cheat on anyone that I know of, and he didn’t take advantage of anyone.”

“I know all of this.”

“Did you ever think about the fact he could have taken advantage of you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“He could have taken you to bed, this pretty, naive undergrad--”

“Hey!”

“And he could have kicked you out the next morning and gone back to fucking around -- but he didn’t do that! Maybe that’s what you should focus on the next time you want to pretend he’s some kind of licentious slut. When I found out Josh had a long-term boyfriend I could not wrap my head around it. Honest to God, I thought it was a joke. And when I met up with J after moving here he told me all about you -- that you’re a good person, you’re smart, you’re funny, you’re passionate, you’re blindingly beautiful, all that shit. The irony of Josh Lyman being more committed to his relationship than any of my friends would be delicious were it not for the fact his idiot boyfriend seems to think it constitutes hypocrisy. People grow up, people fall in love. His world begins and ends with you now, so what does it matter what he did before he met you?” I stand rooted in place throughout her tirade, flooded with shame and unable to think of a single thing to say to Amy. I want to talk to _Josh_. When she sees no response is forthcoming she sighs and slings the tote bag over her shoulder. “I’ve gotta get back to him.”

“You’ll tell him I’m sorry?” I croak.

“Yeah, but you should tell him yourself when you see him next.”

“I will.”

“J was right, you really are disgustingly attractive.” Amy gently punches my shoulder. “I can find my way out. Try not to fuck up like that again, kiddo.”

“Got it.” I collapse on the bed and try in vain not to cry as the front door closes behind her.

***********************************************************************************************************************

“Sam, this came for you.” An intern hands me an interoffice envelope and I spare her a tired smile.

“Thanks, Ellen.”

I open the envelope and a takeout menu from our favorite Chinese restaurant tumbles out. Confused, I shake the envelope again and a note flutters out.

_Sam,_

_Pick your dinner order and send it back over to my office. Be home by 7:00._

_Josh_

_P.S. I’ll pick up the grub but you’re sure as hell paying me back for the food and the beer._

***********************************************************************************************************************

I spring up from the kitchen table the second I hear the key turn in the front door. Josh walks in, clearly exhausted and loaded down with a six-pack of beer and two bags of takeout. Despite spending all afternoon trying to find the right greeting to set the tone for the evening, I find myself exclaiming, “all that food is for the two of us?”

“Yeah.” Josh sets the food and beer down on the counter. “Well, the wonton soup and mu shu pork is yours. Everything else is mine. Egg roll and large hot and sour soup tonight, three other dishes I can eat as leftovers for lunch for the rest of the week.”

“And I’m paying for all that, huh?” I crack a hopeful smile that dies as soon as I see he’s not returning it.

“You are. Want a beer?”

“I’m okay.”

“Suit yourself.” He pops off the bottle cap and undoes his tie, tossing it aside followed by his jacket. I want to tidy up after him as the clothes land on the counter but have enough good sense to refrain. Taking a swig of his beer, he sets it down and starts digging through all the takeout; he puts some in the fridge and arrays the rest on the table.

I watch him carefully as he joins me at the table, avoiding eye contact as he attacks his food with gusto. I open my soup and stir it idly with a spoon. “I’m not that hungry,” I mutter, almost to myself.

Josh finishes off his egg roll and wipes his hands clean. “You want to get right to it?” His voice is flat.

“Y-yeah.” I stand up and grab a beer, my mouth unbearably dry all of a sudden.

“Go ahead, then.”

The words tumble out without any forethought. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Josh! I was scared when you didn’t come home and I didn’t know how to handle what you were telling me. I focused on the wrong part of what you said because if I focused on the other part I’d drive myself crazy thinking about what might have happened to you. And I spent yesterday with that staring me in the face, unable to focus on anything other than how you could have…” I laugh harshly and take a long pull from the bottle. “You’re right, I was acting superior. It was bullshit. And I don’t know what else to say other than to say I’m sorry a hundred times.”

Josh exhales and looks up at me at last. “You know, I spent two weeks last year beating the crap out of myself in my head because I knew exactly how many guys I’d slept with before I started using protection and figured my number could be up. I thought maybe I’d get sick as punishment for cheating death in the fire, or it would be God’s little practical joke after I finally found the one guy I wanted to commit to, permanently. Call me naive, but I thought that after I got my test results back and we talked about it that I’d be able to put that entire episode behind me. I sure as hell thought I’d already put all the other guys I’d slept with behind me! And maybe I shouldn’t have made that comment about how ‘I’d fucked enough guys’ for the odds to be against me, but you should have let it drop! Or you should have acted like it didn’t matter what the hell my magic number was, because it doesn’t fucking matter!” He’s on his feet now. “All of that is in the past, and you know that! I was blindsided by what Amy told me and you had to know that, too, and you turned it into an excuse to make me feel like a disgusting slut who should be shamed for things I did that I have _no_ need to apologize for! So you’re number 34 for me and I’m number one for you -- as long as both our lists stop right there, I could not care less what the numbers are for either of us!”

His outburst hangs in the air as he keeps his eyes on me, chest heaving from the force of his fury and his hands clenched into fists. “You’re right,” I say in a small voice.

Those two words drain all the tension out of him. He rubs a hand over his face and through his already-mussed hair. “I know I was spoiling for a fight when I got home that night, but Jesus, Sam!” He actually laughs. “You outdid me on that score.”

“No kidding.” I cross the small space between us and fold him tightly in my arms. After a second of hesitation that seems to last forever, Josh leans against me and rests a hand on my lower back. “I’m sorry, Josh. I know it shouldn’t matter -- it _doesn’t_ matter.”

“Obviously it does if you reacted like that yesterday! You’re going to tell me you’re completely fine with it overnight?”

“Okay, so I have some work to do to get past it. That’s on me, not you.”

“I can’t believe I have to say this to you, because it should be self-evident, but I could have made you number 34 and moved right on to number 35 a week later.”

I swallow hard, remembering Josh stumbling over his words as he tried to convey that he wanted to have something real between us. It’s only in retrospect that I recognize how frightening that must have been for him -- after years of refusing to let anyone into a position where he could get hurt, he let me in immediately. “That’s kind of what Amy told me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She scares me a little.”

“You’ll get used to it. She came through for me last night so I’m gonna cut her some slack on intimidating my boyfriend.”

“I probably deserved to be intimidated anyway.”

Josh smiles weakly. “Remember what I said to you our first night together, that I’d usually kick the guy out of bed when I’m done?”

“Yes.”

“Sam, that was never an option with you. You were all these things I never even realized I needed until you were lying there next to me and I decided there and then to try and change things so I didn’t fuck everything up with you. I knew pretty early on that I didn’t ever want to get to the point where I moved on to the next guy; I didn’t want there to _be_ a next guy.”

“There won’t be a next guy, not for either of us,” I vow. “And I promise not to focus on any of the other guys who came before me.” I thread my fingers through his hair and dare to steal a soft kiss.

“Can I note something for the record?” Josh asks, two fingers coming up to trail over my cheek. “You were an awful hypocrite about all this, babe. How much actual time did we spend together before you jumped me?”

“I didn’t _jump_ you, I kissed you!”

He smirks. “Uh-huh.”

“Fine,” I sigh. “You’re right about that, too.”

“I know it’s not your fault, I’m irresistible beyond words--”

“Now you’re pushing it,” I grumble. “Josh, are we okay?”

“We will be.”

“Are you okay?”

He gives me an attempted smile that’s more like a grimace. “Not really. From what I remember of Dave, he was a nice guy, smart, loved to play soccer...” He shakes his head. “I spoke to Chris last night; he said Dave’s parents made sure his obituary didn’t say anything about AIDS lest anyone know their son was gay. None of it makes sense to me.”

“I know, sweetheart.” I press kisses over his cheeks, his lips, his neck. “It doesn’t make sense and nobody deserves to have this happen. I’m so sorry if I made you feel as if you deliberately put yourself at risk.”

“You _did_ make me feel like that.”

“Yeah, and that was completely unfair of me.”

“Even worse was when you implied I’d deliberately risked _your_ safety by sleeping with those guys.”

“I’m sorry,” I say in a choked voice.

“Do you remember how I barely touched you in the weeks leading up to my getting tested? I was terrified I was infected but asymptomatic and that despite all our precautions maybe somehow I’d pass that onto you. I was more afraid for you than I was for me!”

My sweet Josh. Shame floods through me at knowing how I hurt this wonderful man. “I just...” I tighten my hold on him. “I got scared even though I know you’re fine and when I get scared I get stupid.”

He sways in my arms. “You don’t have to be scared. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to keep saying that anymore.”

“Maybe I want to.”

“No Sam, listen -- you fucked up but I was not exactly easy to deal with when I came home at 2:00 a.m. Can we try to chalk this up to our mutual stupidity and shock and move on?”

“Yes. Can you promise me something, though?”

“What?”

“Don’t ever spend the night anywhere else again. Please, Josh. You had every right to be furious but I wish you had been in our bed even if you spent the night without deigning to speak to me. We’ve spent enough time sleeping in separate beds over the past two years.”

Josh takes a second to think, then nods. “Okay, I can promise that.”

“Thank you.”

“Amy’s couch is lumpy anyway.”

“No more sleeping on anyone’s couch, not even ours. I want you in our bed.”

“And you tried to deny that I’m irresistible.”

I roll my eyes. “Insufferable is more like it,” I joke, but I let him kiss me, slow and sweet. “Josh, I hate to ruin the moment…”

“Then don’t.”

“Seriously,” I say, stepping back a pace. “Amy mentioned something about gossip being currency around here.”

“That surprises you?”

“I...I didn’t think much about it until she put it in the context of you and Dave.”

“Ah-kay. You want to know who knows?”

“I’d feel better if I did, yes.”

Josh runs a hand through his hair. “You, me, Amy, and Chris. There were a few other people at that beach house but as far as I know none of them work in politics and it sounds like Dave kept his diagnosis a secret from most people. As for the broader question about who knows I was tested for AIDS, you can add Leo and my parents and Matt to that mix.”

“I didn’t know you told Matt.”

“He’s my best friend,” he says, somewhat defensively. “He got tested a couple of months after I did so I decided to be candid about my own experience. It put his mind at ease to know I’d been through it myself, and he certainly won’t go shooting off at the mouth about any of this.”

“He’s okay, right?”

“Yeah, he came out negative, too.”

“I hate thinking about it in that light, but--”

“But people play dirty in this town.”

“It’s hard enough being gay and working on the Hill. You know I’ve already been asked point blank by a few people if I have AIDS.”

“So have I. So has Matt.”

“If you’re gay, you’re fair game around here,” I say bitterly.

“I think we’d be fair game just about anywhere.” The resignation in his voice breaks my heart.

“Well...that’s why we do what we do, to try and change things.”

His answering smile lacks any warmth. “Earl Brennan isn’t invested in championing gay rights, Sam. He’s never given an address on the AIDS crisis. What I’m doing probably won’t make anything better on that front.”

“He’s a good man,” I argue. “DeSantis may have spoken about AIDS but that was only once and in very broad terms. She frustrates me sometimes but she and Brennan both care about treating people fairly. He gave you a key part on his staff and he seems to be grooming you to move up the ladder -- and he doesn’t give a crap about people who take issue with the fact you’re gay. I’d argue that counts for something.”

“For _something_ , yeah. Not sure what that something is, exactly.”

“Well, there’s no law that says you can’t look for employment elsewhere.”

He looks alarmed. “I don’t know what the hell else I’d do with my life.”

“Practice law?” I tease.

“Oh, be quiet.” He sighs. “I love my job, I hate the compromises that come with it.”

“Same here. But you don’t have to compromise on everything, Josh. _This_ is not a compromise,” I tell him, gesturing between us. “That’s the most important thing, and neither of us is settling for anything less than committing our lives to each other. Fuck the idiots on the Hill and our bosses’ bouts of spinelessness. Focus on this.”

Josh reaches for my hand, giving it a squeeze and threading his fingers through mine. “You always know what to say.”

“That’s what they pay me for.” I squeeze his hand in return. “Our food is getting cold.”

“We have a microwave. It’ll keep.” He kisses me, fingers tangling in my hair and his solid warmth pressing against the length of my body. “I love you.”

“God, Josh,” I sigh, the exhaustion of the past few days bleeding out of me. “I love you, too.”


	22. November 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My boyfriend, who has a degree from Princeton and works on Capitol Hill, is bouncing on the bed like a toddler with a sugar high.

JOSH POV

“Josh.”

No, Sam. It’s the weekend and I want to sleep in. I open one eye and look at the digital clock on my nightstand, pulling the blanket over my head when I see it reads 6:32 a.m.

“Josh! Josh!”

“No! Leave me alone!”

“Josh, you gotta get up!” My boyfriend, who has a degree from Princeton and works on Capitol Hill, is bouncing on the bed like a toddler with a sugar high. Great, now he’s poking me through the duvet. “You have to see this!”

I fling the comforter off and glare at him. Unfortunately, all he does is burst into peals of hysterical laughter. “What?”

“Your bedhead! Oh man, that’s a lost cause.”

“Sam, is there a reason you’re pestering me this early on a Saturday of all days?”

“It’s snowing!”

“Yeah, the forecast called for six to eight inches overnight. So?”

“It’s still snowing and there must be ten inches out there. Nobody’s outside and it’s like a winter wonderland!” He bounds out of bed and over to the window wearing only a tight long-sleeved tee, black briefs and a pair of socks “Look!”

“I’m too busy looking at your ass.” I prop myself up on one elbow and ogle him without compunction.

“Jo-o-sh!”

“It’s snow, Sam! I’ve seen it a million times.” I sigh and get out of bed, cursing my decision not to wear socks to sleep as my bare feet hit the cold floor, and shuffle over to stand next to him. “It’s beautiful,” I allow grudgingly.

“Told you.” Sam’s eyes are alight with wonder.

“I’m going back to bed.”

“You’re a Grinch.”

“A) the Grinch stole Christmas, not some random Saturday the week before Thanksgiving. B) I’m Jewish so the Christmas spirit is lost on me anyway. C) It’s cold and I’m getting under the duvet again, then I’m gonna stare at your ass some more.” I smirk and retreat back to my cocoon of blankets.

“Your loss.”

“No, I think I’m making out pretty well here.” My eyes are still zeroed in on his perfect, tight little ass. Damn, he has the cutest butt.

“Do you ever think about anything other than sex?”

“Do you?”

He blushes. “On occasion, yes.”

“Sam, the snow will be there in a few minutes. You want to get over here and snuggle with me?”

“Are we actually going to snuggle or was that a euphemism?” he asks as he joins me under the nice, fluffy warmth of the duvet.

“Let’s play it by ear.” I pull him in for a slow, deep kiss and right when we’re starting to truly make out--

“Fuck!” Sam jerks away and shoots me an accusatory look.

“What?”

“Your feet are like ice!”

“So? Bet you can find a way to warm me up.”

“Sometimes all I want is a way to _shut_ you up.” He flicks my nose, a cheeky grin on his face.

“There are definitely ways to do that.” I cup his crotch, giving it a light squeeze.

“Well, this morning keeps getting better and better.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I nudge Sam so he’s half-reclining on the pillows and urge him to lift his hips so I can peel off his briefs. “I think it works out pretty well for me, too.”

Sam licks his lips as he watches me take just the head of his dick between my lips, sucking tenderly and pumping the shaft with one hand until it’s fully erect. I slide my mouth all the way down, nuzzling the springy hair at the base and smiling as much as I can around the hot, hard flesh when I hear Sam release a shaky moan. God, how I love doing this; I can’t imagine I’ll ever tire of the taste and feel of him in my mouth or the way his body trembles slightly as I bob up and down before pulling off and dragging my tongue along the vein on the underside. I kiss the head, capturing the first drops of precum from the slit and licking my lips clean.

“Josh, please,” he whimpers.

“You need something?” I dip down to kiss and lick at his heavy balls.

“Your mouth,” Sam gasps. “I need your mouth.

“I’m using my mouth.” A kiss lands on the very top of his inner thigh, one of Sam’s most sensitive spots.

“On my dick, Josh!”

It’s so much fun to wind him up, though not nearly as fun as the payoff for both of us when I stop teasing. I return to the regularly scheduled blowjob, impaling my mouth on his dick and making the most obscene sucking sounds I can manage. There’s never been any question about who is the dominant partner in the bedroom, but Sam knows that despite our usual roles I occasionally enjoy having my face fucked to the point where he can grab my head and hold me in place while he rams every inch of his cock down my throat -- like he’s doing at this exact moment. He’s got his fingers curled around my hair and is thrusting wildly against me, and I am seriously regretting not stripping him fully before starting this because his chest is so beautiful and he’s got a stupid shirt on obstructing my view of that smooth expanse of skin. Even when Sam takes command of his blowjobs I usually continue to play with him, tweaking a nipple or teasing him with a dry fingertip nudging his hole, but here I stay totally still and enjoy the sensation of giving him pleasure. Believe me, I can get my own pleasure from that, at least judging by how painfully hard my own dick is; I groan around his cock when I maneuver my sweatpants and boxers far down enough to let my erection spring free.

Sam comes with a shout and I work my throat around him, mindful to swallow everything he gives me before I let his spent cock slip from my lips and press a kiss to his hipbone. “Get up here,” he says, his voice low and certain. He grabs some lotion from the nightstand and dabs it over his hand, grasping my erection with a cool, slick palm and fusing our mouths together as if his life depends on it. He’s a magnificent kisser. As wonderful as this hand job is, it’s honestly not as pleasurable as the way Sam is kissing me -- soft and wet, licking at my bottom lip and sucking on my tongue. His other hand begins to massage my balls and I let out an embarrassingly high-pitched gasp, drawing an answering rumble of laughter that makes his chest shake against mine. With another one of those tremulous gasps I find myself climaxing all too quickly, Sam continuing to kiss me as my cum spills over his elegant fingers.

Fine, so it was a good thing Sam woke me earlier than planned. Saturday mornings don’t get better than this.  
***********************************************************************************************************************

“I-it’s f-freezing out t-there!”

“Holy shit, what happened to you?” I drop what I’m doing and run over to the entrance to the apartment where Sam is soaked and shivering.

“Y-you asked me to sh-shovel out the car.”

“I didn’t ask you, we flipped a coin and you lost. That still doesn’t answer my question.”

Sam doesn’t protest as I peel off his snow-covered layers -- the coat, scarf, and hat are easy, while the jeans take more work and leads to some hopping around on his part that would be more amusing were I not concerned by how my boyfriend has morphed into an icicle. “Th-thank you.”

“I’m drawing you a hot bath,” I say in my best no-room-for-argument tone. “And you’re explaining how you got like this.”

“I wiped out in a snow drift,” Sam confesses. “I tripped over one snow drift and did a face-plant into another.” He narrows his eyes and attempts to look threatening. (It never works on me; I doubt it works on anyone.) “Don’t laugh.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I lie.

“Liar.” There’s a hint of a smile and I’m relieved to see he’s stopped shivering so violently. He allows me to drag him into the bathroom and start running hot water in the tub. One of the main perks of this apartment from Sam’s perspective is the large tub. While I prefer a shower stall, I’ve learned the art of compromise in relationships as well as politics, and signified by signing this lease that I had capitulated at least as far as the great ‘shower versus tub debate of 1986’ was concerned. I’ll never admit this but I’ve started to enjoy the notion of having a bathtub, especially when it means I get to take a bath with my boyfriend; it also apparently comes in handy when said boyfriend is frozen solid and needs to be immersed in warm water.

“Take off the rest of your clothes before you get sick.” I turn on the faucet and adjust the temperature.

“You know that’s an old wives’ tale,” Sam chides.

“Whatever, just get naked and into the water.”

“Are you joining me?”

“Of course I am.” Not that it wouldn’t be fun to sit here and watch the water sluice over Sam’s naked body, making his chest glisten…

Sam yelps as he steps into the hot water and gingerly settles down, beckoning to me with a somewhat imperial wave. “Get in.” My clothes hit the floor and I settle in behind him so his back is against my chest. He takes one of my hands in his and I’d bet my next paycheck that he’s smiling; I certainly am. “This is nice.”

“It is.”

“I told you a bathtub is better.”

“Maybe our next place can have both.”

“Sounds indulgent.”

“ _This_ is indulgent.” I stroke my other hand up and down his arm. “You warming up yet?”

Sam nods. “You’re shoveling the car out next time.”

“Okay.” I’m so content at the moment I’d gladly agree to shovel out the car after every snowstorm for the next five years. Here’s what amazes me -- I’m lying naked in a bath with a man who’s not only the love of my life but dazzlingly beautiful to boot and I have no inclination to fool around. Before Sam, being naked with another guy was good for one thing and one thing only. Honestly, this soak in the tub is the highlight of a week that’s already featured some excellent sex (this morning included). I used to dread the silent spaces that inevitably unfurl in any relationship, not that I ever let it get to the point where the novelty wore off and stability set in; now I love these moments where Sam and I simply coexist, no stimulation require beyond his presence next to me. That’s why it was so easy for me to leap from dating to ‘married.’ As much as he keeps me on my toes in and out of the bedroom, it’s the prospect of decades worth of afternoons like this that made me take the plunge into full commitment.

***********************************************************************************************************************

“Twice in one day?” I mumble against Sam’s lips as he reaches into my boxers and strokes my dick.

“Oh, like that’d be a record for us? As much fun as I had this morning it wasn’t quite enough for me.”

“You’re a slut.”

“Only for you.” He gives me one of those blinding smiles that wrecks whatever self-control I have, not that I was mounting any opposition to his proposition. (I’d rather mount _him_.)

“What do you want?” I shiver as his fingers do something wicked just under the head of my stiffening cock. Somehow he knows all the little things that wind me up and it never gets routine no matter how many times he employs them.

“You in me. Simple enough?”

I decide to give as good as I’m getting, sliding my hand up his shirt and tweaking a nipple. Yeah, that gets a nice gasp. “How?”

Sam sits up and casually disrobes then sets about stripping me with clinical efficiency. “Like this,” he purrs, lying on his side and urging me to spoon him. I nudge one of my knees between his legs and savor the feeling of my erection nestled between the firm cheeks of his ass. Like I said earlier, he’s got the cutest butt.

“Lube?”

“Yeah, gimme a sec…” He stretches forward to rummage in the nightstand and I amuse myself by reaching between his thighs to stroke his balls and circle a finger around his hole. I grab the lubricant from his hand and slick two fingers, giving only the briefest prep before I smear the gel over my heated flesh and ease into him. “God,” Sam chokes out.

“That what you wanted?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, rocking back against me. “I’m so _full_.”

This isn’t my favorite position. My main objection is that it’s hard to kiss Sam without him craning his neck awkwardly and while that also holds true for the times I take him from behind, at least there I get a prime view of his ass. Here it’s a slow, rhythmic rocking back and forth with my arms wrapped tight around him obscuring my ability to see any of the action. But hell, it’s still sex with Sam. It’s still pretty damned nice. I urge his legs farther apart to allow more mobility, and thrust deeper into his perfect tightness, drawing a ragged moan from his throat that makes my blood run hot. After this morning’s romp I’m not in any rush to get this over with, and there’s always a lot of pleasure to be had in stringing Sam along until he reaches the breaking point. I bat his hands away when he reaches for his cock, and kiss just under his ear; he’s nearly silent, save for a few soft whimpers and groans that join the sounds of our bodies coming together with every thrust. One of my hands is braced on Sam’s hip, holding him in place, while the other skates over his chest, nails lightly scraping over his sensitive nipples; my mouth travels along his shoulder and neck, planting soft kisses on the warm skin as he trembles against me.

“Are you close?”

“Y-yes.” Sam tenses as I angle my cock over his prostate.

“How do you want to come?”

“Like this...this is good.”

I grab his cock and pump it firmly in time with my thrusts, his name tumbling from my lips over and over as his tight channel clenches around my dick. He reaches the edge first, crying out as his cock jerks and cum pours over my hand. My fingers travel up to his mouth and immediately he sucks them inside, lapping up his mess with familiar enthusiasm, and I know I’m not lasting much longer. A few more sharp thrusts and I bury my head in his shoulder to muffle my yell of his name, my cock surging once more inside him before shooting my load deep into his ass.

Sam whines when my dick slips out of him and I laugh gently. “Slut,” I tease again.

“Only for you,” he repeats, the last word nearly swallowed by a massive yawn.

I fetch a damp cloth from the bathroom and clean my hand and his inner thighs, grinning at his shudder when I pass oh-so-briefly over his hole. “That better?”

“Mmm, yes.” He rolls out of bed and stretches, affording me a fabulous image that I imagine will come in handy the next time I jerk off. Damn, but his body is perfect. “Gonna brush my teeth.” He raises an expectant eyebrow and I grumble, following him out of bed and into the bathroom, rinsing out the cloth before I indulge him by giving my teeth a thorough brushing. I’ve heard enough lectures about the importance of banishing plaque and the necessity of flossing that I’ve completely surrendered to his militant brand of dental hygiene.

We make it back to bed with a minimum of touches -- my hand skims down his back, his brushes against my chest -- and suddenly realize it’s fucking freezing despite the earlier body heat we created. Bundling into sweats and a threadbare sweater, I note with a grin that Sam has topped his flannel pants with the Harvard sweatshirt I had on this afternoon. “You don’t have enough Princeton shirts?” I tease.

“I like wearing this,” he says simply.

“Should I report this to your alumni association?”

“I doubt it’s grounds for revoking my diploma.”

“No, but next time you want to insist your alma mater is superior to mine I’ll remind you that you choose to wear Harvard gear.”

Sam blushes. “It feels like…well, it’s stupid.”

“What?”

“It feels like you’re hugging me when I wear this. And it smells like you.”

“I could give you a real hug,” I remind him, urging him into a loose embrace and dropping a kiss on his head. The sweatshirt is a size or two too big on Sam and it makes him look even younger than usual.

“I’ll take both.” He tilts his head up and steals a kiss, then another. By the time the third kiss ends, we’re both breathless. “Nice way to end the day, huh?”

“The whole day has been pretty fucking nice, Sam.”

“Says the guy who didn’t wipe out in a snow drift.”

“Okay, _my_ whole day has been pretty fucking nice. Besides, I got you nice and warm, and I even made you tea after your bath. You were downright pampered today.”

“You take good care of me, Josh.” His smile is beguiling and there’s not a shred of sarcasm in his tone.

“Well, somebody’s got to do it.”

“Lucky me that you applied for that job.”

“Lucky me that you hired me for it.” I pull him closer and smile. Fifty more years of days like today sounds pretty fantastic to me.


	23. December 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s your life, Sam! Stay in politics, don’t stay in politics -- whatever you decide, I’m going to support you!”

SAM POV

“You wanted to see me, ma’am?” I step into the Congresswoman’s office with what I hope is a winning smile. Honestly, I’m exhausted. The past few months have been brutal -- a reelection campaign that was only narrowly won after a disheartening reversal on several of her more liberal positions, something she’s continued after the race ended as she tries to stake out a more centrist reputation in hopes of making enough friends to gain a seat on the Foreign Relations Committee. Worst of all, she completely shredded a speech I wrote last week regarding public health. There was one paragraph that touched on the need for greater NIH funding to help stem the AIDS epidemic and she vetoed that in no uncertain terms, then made me rework the whole thing so no inferences could be drawn that she was discussing the disease at all. God forbid someone elected to serve the public take a stand on _protecting_ the public if it means discussing anything linked to homosexuality.

“Sam, please close the door and have a seat.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I need to speak to you about the Christmas party we’ll be having in a few weeks.”

“Okay.” That doesn’t sound too bad. Maybe she wants me to write a little speech for her to address the staff.

“Were you planning to invite your boyfriend?”

My heart plummets to the bottom of my stomach. “Yes. He’s invited me to attend Congressman Brennan’s staff party, and I know the other staffers here are inviting their--”

“I’d prefer it if he doesn’t attend.” She gives me what she must think is a sympathetic smile and I have the very real urge to punch something.

“No disrespect, ma’am, but as I just noted the rest of the staff have been encouraged to bring a date.”

“Sam, let me say first that you do excellent work.” I don’t give a shit about that, lady. Not right now. “Your writing is as good as I’ve ever seen and I’ve been at this a long time. You have a gift and you’re a valuable member of my team.”

“But?” I probably was expected to thank her for that praise. Fuck that.

Her smile vanishes. “You need to tone it down, Sam.”

“Tone what down?” I ask, deciding on the path of deliberate obtuseness.

“You’re making some of the other staff uncomfortable when you talk about being in a homosexual relationship.”

“Ma’am, I…” I flail for the right words. “I don’t see what the problem is. There are a number of staffers who discuss their significant others far more than I talk about Josh.”

“I’m asking you to recognize that not everybody is as comfortable with your orientation as you might think.”

“Due respect, Congresswoman, you hired me knowing I’m gay. This is a problem all of a sudden after I’ve been on your staff for six months?”

“Sam, you know how close I came to losing the election. You also know I’m trying to get a seat on the Foreign Relations committee and the conservative wing of the GOP will use just about any excuse to paint me as a hedonistic liberal who rejects traditional values. I’ve already had to sidestep my earlier positions on issues such as abortion rights and sex education.”

“I’m not an _issue_ , ma’am. I’m a person.” My throat closes up and I blink furiously, trying desperately not to compound my humiliation by losing control of my emotions.

“You can _become_ an issue very quickly in this town. Earl Brennan has enough clout that he can have a gay staffer without his opponents turning it into a political football, but I am not on Brennan’s level.”

“No kidding,” I mutter before I can stop the words from slipping out.

DeSantis gives me a look that makes me feel about two inches tall. “I’ll choose to ignore that.”

“Ma’am, I didn’t mean--” This time I shut up. I’m not going to apologize, not for standing up for myself. I clear my throat and ask, “Is there anything else, ma’am?”

She folds her arms over her chest. “Just keep in mind that this is how professional politics works. You can’t take this personally, not if you want to advance the way I know you’re capable of doing. As I said, I value your contributions and I’d like to see you continue to do excellent work in this capacity, however I need to be clear on a few ground rules. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very good. Now, I’d like a draft of my speech for Friday night’s Smithsonian event on my desk by 5:00. Think you can do that?” The faux-sympathetic smile is back.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Sam. You’re dismissed.”

I walk back to my desk, glancing around at my colleagues and wondering which ones took their ‘concerns’ to the Congresswoman. It’s as if I have a scarlet letter around my neck. The last time I felt this self-conscious was the first time I held hands with Josh in public. _Josh_. How am I going to tell him he can’t go to the party with me? No, fuck that. I’m not going to the party if I can’t bring him. If this is how professional politics really works, where my boss barters away my ability to be open and honest so she can make a deal or two, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it after all.

***********************************************************************************************************************

There’s a message from Josh on the answering machine when I get home letting me know he’s staying late at the office to work on the latest draft of the rider Brennan’s attaching to a foreign aid package. While he sends his regrets, the enthusiasm in his voice for the work he’s been tasked with is unmistakable. He’s in his element and I feel completely out of mine. I’ve dreamed of working in politics since I was nine years old; in high school I spent every summer volunteering for whatever local Democratic politician I could find, even the distant also-rans who stood no chance of being elected in my largely Republican home county. When I interned for Congressman McHenry two summers ago it cemented my determination to embark on this career even if McHenry was a spineless twerp -- the bottom line was that it was a thrill to be a part of something bigger than myself. I realize now that aides see the reality of the process, something that eluded me as an intern or a volunteer. Even as a junior staffer I’m able to get a perspective on how and why deals are made, and that people are expendable. A woman I respected six months ago is now kowtowing to the institutionalized homophobia on Capitol Hill that I was woefully ignorant of until I took this job.

This is not the life I had in mind when I moved here after graduation. There are times when I only feel happy and safe when I’m inside this apartment. It shouldn’t be like this.

The sound of Josh’s key in the lock jolts me from my musings. A glance at my watch shows I’ve been lying on top of the duvet, still in my suit and lost in thought, for a good two hours. That’s healthy. “Sam?”

“In here.”

Josh stops in his tracks when he sees me sprawled listlessly on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Sam.” His voice is sharp. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Carol DeSantis and her staff would feel more comfortable if they could pretend I’m straight. You’re not allowed to come to the Christmas party and I’ve been instructed to ‘tone it down’ when it comes to acknowledging your existence.”

He sighs heavily and starts changing out of his suit. “All of a sudden your being gay is a problem for her?”

“She’s afraid of being attached to anything controversial. Apparently _I’m_ controversial.”

“Well, she needed to strike a more moderate tone during her reelection campaign and it sounds like she’s staying in that zone.”

“The election is over, Josh.”

“And she’s already looking ahead to the next one. So is my boss.”

“Your boss isn’t throwing his staffers under the bus to appease a bunch of bigots on the Foreign Relations committee. Why the fuck should anyone even care what her speechwriter’s sexual orientation is?”

“Because they can score cheap points with it.” He settles in next to me, running his fingers through my hair.

“This the way it works, huh?”

Josh can’t meet my eyes. “Yeah. I got lucky, Brennan actually cares about the people who work for him and he went to bat for me. There were a few people tried to make it an issue when he hired me and he shut them down. I’ll be honest, I thought DeSantis would do the same for you. Before this campaign threw her into a tailspin her rep was one of fairness and integrity.”

“Nice to know how quickly that can be destroyed,” I say bitterly.

“Welcome to Washington, Sam.”

I glare at him. “You don’t have to condescend to me.”

“I’m not! But this is what it’s like to work in politics if you’re openly gay. For every step forward there’s at least a half step back. You just have to keep at it.”

“That’s your advice?” I ask incredulously. “Keep at it? I should tough it out and stop complaining?”

There’s a long pause. “No. That’s not my advice. Look, Sam, you’re miserable. You’ve been miserable for a couple of months now and it’s killing me.”

My chest feels tight as I realize that he’s already figured out where my thoughts have strayed. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that if you’re this unhappy you should take a step back and examine if this is really what you think is best for you. If you think there’s a chance it’ll get better then stick with it and I’ll be there for you no matter how hard the bullshit rains down, but don’t put yourself through hell if you honestly think it’s not worth it. You can walk away for a while and the world won’t come to a halt.”

“I can’t…”

“You can.”

“I’ve never quit on something just because it gets too hard.” Tears sting my eyes and I look away. Josh puts a hand on my chin, gently forcing me to meet his gaze.

“It doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It means you’re being failed by a really fucked-up system.”

“You’re not disappointed in me?”

He looks aghast. “How could you think that?”

I close my eyes, staggered by the feeling of overwhelming defeat. “Because you’ve said so many times that I’m going to make a difference. And I’m running away at the first sign of--”

“Jesus, are you fucking kidding me?! You don’t have to be in politics to effect change! In fact, I know a lot of people who would argue you’re better off working outside the Beltway if you want to get shit done. Anyway, do you think I’d love you any less if you decided to spend your life working as a…I don’t know, a librarian or a gym teacher or a cashier? Do what you want to do; all I want is to come home and find you happy and fulfilled, not collapsed on the bed looking like your heart has been stomped on. It’s your life, Sam! Stay in politics, don’t stay in politics -- whatever you decide, I’m going to support you!”

I really don’t know what I did along the way to deserve him. I tuck myself against his chest and breathe deeply as his arms enfold me in a protective embrace. “Maybe I should apply to law school.”

There’s a slow exhale as Josh calms down. “Yeah, maybe you should.”

“It’s only December 4th. Most applications aren’t due for another six to eight weeks.”

“You already aced the GSA and the LSATs,” he remarks. “You were summa from Princeton with a thesis on Constitutional law, interned at the ACLU, and you can list your gig as a Congressional aide on your application. I’m sure the Congresswoman would write you a letter of recommendation, and so would Leo.”

“You’re really okay with this idea? It could end up as another three years of long-distance stuff,” I point out.

Josh shrugs. “We got through two years of that already. Don’t get me wrong, I’d miss you like crazy if you get into a school outside D.C. but--”

“I don’t want you to think this is any kind of rejection of you, of _us_.” I take his hands in mine and squeeze.

“Sam, I don’t think that. I’d rather have you go to Boston or New York for a few years if it ends up with you living the life you want than keep you in Washington at a job you hate and you become so unhappy that it affects our relationship. Just promise me one thing?”

“Name it.”

“Don’t apply to any schools not within driving or train range – nothing in the midwest or west coast. All I ask is that if one of us is desperate to see the other we’ll be able to do it without having to get on an airplane. I know that rules out Stanford and Berkley and University of Chicago and--”

“Done.”

“Huh?”

I kiss him soundly. “It rules out some schools but it still leaves Harvard, Yale, Columbia, Duke, Georgetown, Penn, and a dozen others. Besides, none of those schools you mentioned offers anything remotely special enough to compensate for being that far away from you.”

Josh smiles, dimples flashing and making my heart skip a beat. “I love you a hell of a lot, you know that?”

“I love you too, Josh,” I say quietly, leaning in for another kiss.

“Don’t ever think you could disappoint me by doing what makes you happy.”

“Okay.” I swallow hard. “I really did want to work on the Hill.”

“I know,” he sighs.

“How do you do it?” I ask. “You make it look effortless and you get more shit than I do.” 

Being in a more visible position than I (for a more visible Representative than my boss), Josh has been called every name in the book by people with whom he’s faced off, and I suspect I only hear about a small fraction of the crap he’s had to deal with. He looks uncomfortable and for a split second I see in his eyes all the pain he tries desperately to conceal. “I don’t know,” he says at last. “My freshman year at Harvard I let it show when I got upset and it just egged on the abuse. I learned how to stuff it all down inside, which I’m sure you’d say is not healthy. But I’ve discovered that if I’m the last one standing, if the assholes can’t knock me down, then they eventually afford me a kind of grudging respect even if they hate my guts.”

“I’ve never figured out how to do that,” I confess.

“Part of me envies you for being like that.” He laughs a little at the shock on my face. “You feel everything so keenly, babe. You’re not jaded. I hate it when it causes you to hurt, but you’re at least honest with yourself about how you feel.”

“I don’t know how much it helps me. Thank God you’re strong enough for both of us.”

“Don’t say that!” Josh exclaims. “You’re incredibly strong, Sam.”

“I’m not, really.”

“Do you know how many self-loathing closet cases are in this town? You came out and you did it when you were only 20. You did it knowing how much harder it would make your life, your career path, your relationship with your parents -- but you came out anyway. Seriously, I never want to hear you say that you’re not strong.”

“Okay,” I say, taken aback by the heat behind his words.

The high emotion is suddenly broken when a low rumbling sound comes from my stomach and Josh rolls his eyes. “Did you eat dinner?”

“No. Did you?”

“Nope.” He presses his lips to my temple. “Want me to heat up that leftover pizza?”

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

“You got it.”

“Thank you.” We both know I’m not talking about dinner anymore.

Josh gives me another one of those turn-my-knees-to-water smiles and squeezes my hand. “Anything for you.”


	24. April 1987

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was I expecting, that he’d get into these great schools and not go to any of them? I have no doubt that we’ll survive the separation the way we did during his undergrad years; that doesn’t stop me from being devastated by the prospect of him packing up his life and driving away at the end of this summer.

JOSH POV

In the end, Sam’s list came down to five schools. In the end, he got into four of them.

Georgetown said thanks but no thanks, and I suspect that the subject of Sam’s undergraduate thesis was off-putting to a Jesuit institution. I’d been holding out hope for Georgetown, as it’s the only school in D.C. he applied to, but now it’s official that we’ll be doing the long-distance dance again. Yale said yes. Columbia said yes. University of Virginia said yes. Duke said yes.

I’m not entirely surprised when I pad into the kitchen one Sunday morning to find Sam at the table with the four acceptance letters and a sheaf of graph paper neatly arranged in front of him. For two weeks he’s been bouncing back and forth between his options -- all of them among the top law schools in the country. It’s a difficult enough decision that he spent four nights last week making an extensive spreadsheet on some graph paper he stole from his office so he could chart each school by factors such as the cost of tuition, the projected cost of off-campus housing, the distance we’d have to travel to see each other, the likelihood that he’d find a supportive community as an openly gay student, and the rate of job placement following graduation. I think there were a grand total of 28 metrics. Don’t even ask me how he figured out the algorithm by which he calculated the scores. He’s freakishly smart and it’s usually safer not to ask too many questions about how his brain works.

“Have you considered scoring the schools by their proximity to a place that sells sex toys?” I ask by way of a morning greeting.

Sam shoots me a murderous glare. “This is serious, Josh.”

“I know.” I squeeze his shoulder as I pass by to grab my first cup of coffee.

“I should have applied to Harvard,” he sighs. “Or Penn. Don’t you think Penn would have been a good fit?”

“I think you’re starting to wig out.” That earns me a second murderous glare. “Sam, you really have to commit in the next few days. The longer you agonize over this the more you’re going to play devil’s advocate when considering every option and then you’ll wind up second-guessing your decision.”

“Are you suggesting eeny-meeny-miney-moe as a method of selection?”

“No, I’m suggesting that you go with your instinct. All the spreadsheets in the world won’t make a difference if you make a choice based on data and not what you actually want.”

“But the data--”

“Is useful, I know. But maybe you should just ask yourself which envelope you were most nervous about opening and go with that.”

He opens his mouth, a sarcastic response clearly on the tip of his tongue, then pauses and tilts his head. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

“See? Once in a while I can be smart.”

“Okay, can you get me some envelopes?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Blank ones. I need to reseal the acceptance letters and pretend I’m opening them again to really feel like I’m--”

“Sam!”

He jumps about a foot in the air. Holy fucking shit. The last time he was wound this tight it was because I sucked his cock for half an hour before letting him come. “I’m trying to use your idea!”

“No, what you’re trying to do is convince me you need a psychiatric intervention, and you’re succeeding beyond your wildest dreams.” This time he’s too jittery to bother with the glare. “I’m taking my coffee into the living room so you can continue tunneling through this little strategic labyrinth you’ve locked yourself into without any disturbance.”

“So you’re telling me you’re not getting me any envelopes?”

“No!”

***********************************************************************************************************************

Three hours later Sam emerges from the kitchen and sinks down on the couch, prying the sports section from my hands and tossing it aside. “I liked your spiel about gut instinct but I did need the metrics.”

“I understand.”

He takes my hands in his. “Durham is a four-hour drive from D.C.”

There’s a heaviness creeping into my chest. Despite all my encouragement -- genuine encouragement, let it be noted -- I am not happy Sam is leaving. I remind myself that people make sacrifices when they love someone but that doesn’t make it any easier. “That’s only an hour longer each way than Princeton,” I say, my voice faint and hollow.

“Yeah.”

“You’re seriously turning down Yale?”

“New Haven is too far away. Plus, I’ve visited Connecticut in the winter and it’s definitely an acquired taste.”

“And Columbia? UVA?”

“Both great schools,” Sam says. “But Duke feels like the best fit. You know how much I loved the campus when we visited.”

“It’s a far more conservative environment than Columbia or Yale,” I remark.

“Don’t worry, Josh, I’m not crossing over to the dark side,” he laughs. “I think there’s some merit in immersing myself in a community that’s not all pinko liberals.”

“I’m not talking about politics, Sam. If you went to Columbia you’d be in New York and it wouldn’t be as--”

“Josh,” he says quietly, fingers stroking over the back of my hand. “This is what I want.”

“Then that’s where you should go.” I bite the inside of my cheek, overwhelmed by the rush of emotion flowing through me. What was I expecting, that he’d get into these great schools and not go to any of them? I have no doubt that we’ll survive the separation the way we did during his undergrad years; that doesn’t stop me from being devastated by the prospect of him packing up his life and driving away at the end of this summer.

“As you said, it’s not that much further away than Princeton was.”

“Who are you trying to convince?” The smile I flash is weak and almost certainly unconvincing.

Sam hesitates. “Josh…”

“Listen, I’m going to miss you like crazy. You know that. And yeah, there’s a part of me that wishes you weren’t going anywhere. But if this is what’s going to make you happy I’m not going to scream and yell that you shouldn’t do it. It’s three years not twenty, it’s not even twelve months out of the year, and when you’re done you’ll move back.” That last bit was one part of figuring out this whole process that was easy for both of us. Sam made it very clear that wherever he gets his J.D. it will culminate with a return to Washington and finding employment here. This city is teeming with law careers and he could do anything he wanted without delving back into the nitty-gritty of politics -- work for an NGO, go into corporate law, work for the Justice Department, apply for a clerkship in Federal District Court or even the Supreme Court.

“And you’ll hold down the fort until I get back?”

“Yeah. All this will be here for weekends and summers and winter recesses and it’ll be here when you graduate in 1990.” I nuzzle his cheek, savoring the comfort I always draw from the simple act of being close to him.

“It would have been easier if I’d gotten into Georgetown. Maybe I should have applied to G.W.”

“You didn’t get into Georgetown and you didn’t apply to G.W., so this is where we are now. Dwelling on hypotheticals isn’t going to get you anywhere, and honestly you’d be crazy to choose G.W. over any of the schools you got into.”

“I’d be crazy to want to stay here living with you?” he asks, hurt showing up in his eyes.

“No! You’d be crazy to give up the opportunity to go to one of the best law schools in the country. It’s called compromise, Sam. I’ll do a lot of things for you, but I won’t let you hold yourself back for my sake. You’re going to Duke, for God’s sake!” I give him a gentle shake. “This is huge! It’s exciting!”

A tiny smile appears and he inches closer until he’s practically in my lap. “It is exciting.”

“Did you sign the letter of commitment yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Go into the kitchen and do that, and I’ll get an envelope and stamp.”

“Oh, _now_ you’ll get me an envelope,” he jokes.

I laugh. “We’ll walk down to the mailbox, send it on its way, and then I’m taking you out to breakfast.”

“It’s almost noon.”

“We can still get pancakes at the diner.” I squeeze his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get dressed and get this show on the road.”

“Okay.” He kisses me all-too-briefly. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“I do know that,” I say blithely. He shakes his head then kisses me again, deep and sensual. “Mmm, keep that up and we’re not going to make it to the diner.” I give his ass a squeeze.

“Later,” he says, and I note with pride how breathless he sounds.

“Later for pancakes, or later for _this_?” I roll my hips against his, whining when he places his palms on my chest and leverages off my body.

“Later for _that_.”

“Seriously?” I give him my best attempt at a pout, which is greeted by a very amused smirk.

“We’re going to mail my letter, get pancakes, come back home so I can call my parents, and then you’re taking me to bed and fucking me properly.”

“Which entails what, exactly?”

Sam looks entirely too nonchalant as he says, “pinning me down and making me take your cock so deep inside that I can barely breathe.”

I clench my thighs and will my dick not to pitch a tent in my boxers. “Yeah, uh, that sounds…”

The smirk makes a return. “Get dressed, Josh. Sooner we do the other things on my list the sooner we can get to _that_.”

***********************************************************************************************************************

It turns out we don’t get to _that_ until much, much later.

Over pancakes and waffles and copious amounts of coffee Sam convinces me that a beautiful spring day in Washington D.C. shouldn’t be wasted in our bedroom, and I think I should get a good deal of brownie points for going along with this – especially when he follows up this assertion by licking a stray drop of syrup from the corner of his mouth. Naturally he’s clueless as to what that does to me. Sam is effortlessly sexy and most of the time he’s oblivious to that fact. Once in a while he’ll throw some deliberate teasing around but this syrup-licking bit is not that -- and for whatever reason I find that _more_ arousing. Goddamn it, he better make this stroll in the sunshine worth it.

We set off from the diner, the discussion veering to planning a summer getaway; Sam is keen on visiting Roanoake, and I’m enough of a history nerd to agree that sounds promising. Before I know it we’re almost at the Capitol and I start to whine that my legs are tired, not that he affords me any sympathy on that score. Every time I start running out of steam he keeps tugging me along. “It’s gorgeous out, Josh. We should go hang out on the Mall.”

It _is_ a perfect April afternoon, unseasonably mild under a crisp azure sky. We never go to the Washington Mall; it’s a tourist hotspot and it’s the kind of location where the simple act of holding Sam’s hand will invariably lead to dirty looks.

“Let’s go sit over there.” He points to a sun-dappled patch of grass just beyond the leafy shade of a large tree. I know exactly why he’s chosen this spot.

“Well, this brings back memories,” I comment, easing myself down on the grass. In the nearly three years since Sam approached me at this very spot we haven’t made a trip back here. It’s a nice enough location but too wide-open to feel romantic.

Sam takes a seat close enough so our feet knock against each other and he can cover my hand in the nest of grass between us. “You had this red-and-white checked shirt on. Not your best style moment.”

“It was stylish!” I protest.

“It looked like an Italian tablecloth,” he says, tossing me a fond glance.

“I’d spent the afternoon helping Matt put together furniture. Fashion had not been on my mind when I got dressed that morning.” (Or any morning, really. Sam lets that part slide.) “You had on jeans and a gray tee-shirt, and your hair kept falling into your eyes.”

“I had no idea what I was going to say to you before I came up and started talking,” Sam confesses.

“Did you plan to call me Mr. Lyman?” I tease.

He narrows his eyes. “I felt it was important to be polite.”

“Uh-huh. All I know is when you said you were 20 I suddenly felt like this lecherous old creeper.”

He bursts out laughing. “Why? I was an adult!”

“Because I’d already had a few impure thoughts about you--”

“Impure?” Sam snickers.

“--and I had assumed for whatever reason that you were at least old enough to go into a bar.”

“Oh, and that one year makes a difference?”

“No, I’m just a little neurotic about weird things.”

“If I’d known that it would have made that day and the next a lot more bearable.”

“What, that I’m neurotic?”

“No, that you’d already put some thought into what I looked like naked.” Sam looks around but nobody else is remotely within earshot.

“And the reality exceeded my wildest fantasies.”

“Well, it would have eased my anxiety if I had any hint you liked me that way.” I swear, the man has no concept of his own beauty. How could anyone _not_ like him that way?

“You looked like a deer caught in the headlights when I told you I was gay,” I remind him. “I didn’t think that a full frontal assault was going to work if I wanted to get you in my bed.”

“Hence the potluck?”

“Hence the potluck.”

“But you didn’t have any doubt you’d end up bedding me,” he laughs, his voice warm and bemused.

“Nah. I figured that part would be easy.” I entwine my fingers with his, my thumb brushing over the inside of his wrist. “I just didn’t anticipate we’d end up here. That shifted when you actually kissed me. I’d already told Matt it wasn’t my usual, you know, the usual fuck-and-run.” In the wake of our biggest fight, the one last summer about my past promiscuity, Sam has finally moved past his insecurities about how many guys I slept with before he came along. If it comes up in conversation now he doesn’t bat an eye. “But it wasn’t until we kissed that I realized exactly how eager I was to change things so I could be with you.”

He’s silent for a minute. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t seen you sitting here that day.”

I tilt my head, frowning. “We would have run into each other on the Hill again at some point that summer.”

“Doing our jobs, yeah. Hardly an environment that invites the kind of personal conversation we had here.”

“You might have heard gossip about me being gay and approached me anyway,” I suggest.

Sam inches closer, our shoulders almost touching. “Maybe. I guess it doesn’t matter. I’ve got you now.”

“You’ve had me for a long time, babe.” We’re sporting matching goofy grins.

“Want to get going?”

I turn and kiss his cheek. “Nah. Let’s stay here a little while longer.”

***********************************************************************************************************************

Much, much later, after we tumble into bed and I wrest a particularly loud orgasm from him at almost the exact moment I spend myself inside his body, I lie under the sheets making a futile attempt to read by lamplight while my gaze keeps drifting over to Sam asleep beside me. When he decided to apply to law school it took some convincing from me that leaving his job on the Hill didn’t represent a failure, that it takes guts to admit something you’ve decided to do isn’t working out and chart a new course for your life. The thing is, I don’t imagine for one second that Sam will avoid circling back to politics -- he’s too involved in the issues and too dedicated to the idea that democracy in action has the potential to be a wonderful thing to spend the rest of his life on the sidelines or live that passion vicariously through my career.

The last thing I want, however, is a repeat of his experience with this job. If he ever comes back it’ll have to be for something that’s worth it. He asked me once why I like working with Brennan and I explained that the Congressman is genuine in his devotion to his constituents, even the ones who didn’t vote for him, and that his principles are rarely tossed aside for the sake of expediency. I may not agree with all his positions but at least he comes by them honestly. ‘The real thing,’ I called him.

Finding the real thing in politics is like finding a unicorn. Or maybe more like finding a four-leaf clover because they _are_ out there, too often buried under the rubble of cheap suits and the old boys’ club that runs this town. Sam is going to law school and he’s going to ace it, and after that he’s going to have a brilliant career. I know that instinctively. If that’s the right choice for him I won’t stand in his way; there’s more than one way to make a difference in this world and he can certainly do it within the bounds of a career in law. But if I find another real thing along the way, someone who I know will inspire Sam the way he deserves to be inspired, I just may have to pass on that information.

What happens after that will be up to him.


	25. July 1987

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Go on, babe. Put on a show.”

SAM POV

Josh greets me at the door with a thorough kiss. “Hey! How was dinner?”

“It was a lot of fun. Amy even picked up the check -- after she made me promise to take her out to a nicer restaurant once I’m ‘rolling in lawyer dough.’ Her phrase, not mine.” I was a little surprised when Amy Gardner called me this morning to see if she could take me out to dinner; we’ve only spent a few evenings in each other’s company, and never without Josh in tow. We didn’t quite get off on the right foot that night she came over to yell at me for slut-shaming Josh but the hatchet has long since been buried. She’s funny, tough, and brilliant; watching her debate politics with Josh is a thrilling spectator sport.

“When you’re rolling in lawyer dough you’d better take me out to a nice dinner before you treat Amy.”

“I will,” I assure him. “Did you eat?”

“I stopped for a burger on the way home.”

“By which you mean McDonald’s?” I ask suspiciously.

“Um, yeah.”

“Josh, that is hardly nutritious.”

“It’s quick and cheap!” he protests. “Besides, I ate that tofu you cooked last night. I’m entitled to a little junk after that.” At my wounded expression he hurries to clarify, “and the tofu was delicious! But it was still tofu.”

“I feel bad you were stuck with fast food while Amy took me out to a nice pub. I would have insisted you come along if I’d known you’d end up just eating a Big Mac.”

“Hey, I enjoy the occasional Big Mac. Besides, I wouldn’t have gone with you guys tonight anyway and Amy knew that. I asked her to take you out.”

“Wait, she only took me to dinner because you told her to?”

“She likes you a lot, Sam, but your little _tete-a-tete_ over sandwiches was my idea. I needed to keep you out of the apartment for a few hours.”

Now I’m intrigued. “And why was that?”

Josh grabs my hand as a grin crosses his face that can only mean one thing -- my boyfriend has done something that has the potential to be irretrievably stupid. Granted, this does not happen very often. He is a supremely intelligent man who is capable of putting together some surprises that take my breath away, such as the time he treated me to four days in New York for my twenty-first birthday. Then again, there are also those instances where things backfire spectacularly such as the time he decided the best way for me to deal with a horrific week at work was a Friday night bubble bath but, realizing we didn’t _have_ any bubble bath, opted for lemon-scented dish soap as a quick fix. (I did not get into the tub, as the bathroom smelled like a lethal amount of citrus.) My point being that this has the potential to be extremely wonderful or extremely disastrous, and either way it’s guaranteed to be interesting.

He doesn’t say anything as he tugs me into the bedroom, laughing as I stop short and stare dumbly at the sight of our bed dragged almost entirely across the room from its usual position. “Josh?”

“Yes?”

“You made Amy take me out tonight so you could move our bed?”

“Yes.”

“You moved the bed by yourself?” This is not a lightweight piece of furniture. It’s got a headboard and footboard and everything, and it’s solid wood.

“I did indeed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That much is obvious.”

“Josh--”

“Isn’t it great? Now it lines up with the closet door!”

I frown and look over at the closet. “Is that some metaphor I should read into?”

He ignores my attempt at a joke and swings the closet door open. “Ta-da!”

“I’ve seen the closet before,” I point out. Now Josh is exasperated and he tugs me over to the repositioned bed so I’m facing the closet door and the...oh. This makes a lot more sense now. Sitting on the bed my eyeline is aimed directly at the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the door, which is now only about a foot away from the foot of the bed. I look up at him with a renewed respect for his strategic planning skills. “You’re a genius.”

“I know,” he says with a smug grin that I must admit is well-earned. “I only wish I’d thought of this sooner.”

A few years ago I casually mentioned to Josh during a discussion of our sex life that I’d fantasized on numerous occasions about him fucking me in public. I’m not talking about renting out the Kennedy Center so he could ream my ass while paying customers munched on popcorn; it was more the idea of getting it on in a location where someone might happen to wander by and see my gorgeous, well-hung boyfriend fucking me six ways to Sunday. A semi-deserted beach, perhaps, or a hotel room with a connecting door that we don’t realize is slightly ajar. Even a men’s room stall with a broken lock works in my fantasies, despite the little voice in my head reminding me that would be unsanitary in the extreme. And unlike a number of other fantasies -- such as Josh’s desire to tie me up before having his way with me -- this one was never in the realm of possibility. There are clubs in this town where we could indulge that fantasy but neither of us seriously entertained that possibility, first because it would provide someone with spectacular blackmail material if they recognized Josh and, more important, because I don’t actually want to act out this little daydream.

While the idea in the abstract when I’m jerking off or Josh is talking dirty to me gets me hot beyond words, he’s is the only man I’ve been with and the only one I ever truly want to see me lose myself under his touch. He’s similarly possessive. The fantasy has a lot of merit, but only as a fantasy. Then I started to think of ways to indulge my exhibitionist leanings without the trouble of an actual third party. I brought up the idea of getting a camcorder and making a videotape, or having Josh take Polaroids of me performing various sex acts. He vetoed both on the grounds that it’d be tempting fate to have either one floating around. I tried to reason with him by saying that we live alone and we could secure these items in a safe place; my argument didn’t get very far and I let the matter drop. (I should point out at this juncture that Josh keeps me well and truly satisfied. The man is as creative in bed as he is passionate, not that he has to do anything more than a simple missionary-style fuck for me to have an explosive orgasm.) And now Josh has gone and moved our bed all by himself to accommodate my fantasy life, not caring that he could have thrown out his back in the process.

This surprise _definitely_ falls in the ‘extremely wonderful’ category, which is a term I could also apply to my boyfriend.

“Sam?” My eyes must have glazed a little when I put the pieces together because Josh is looking at me with a maniacal grin. “I take it you like my re-decorating skills?”

I stand up and start stripping off his dress shirt. “If you weren’t already getting laid tonight you’d totally be getting laid tonight.”

He laughs and we lapse back into silence as we each work at getting the other naked. One of his large hands gives my dick a gentle squeeze before removing my briefs, and swoops in for a long kiss. “Get on the bed, lie flat on your back at the edge facing the mirror,” he orders, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

God, I’m already on the edge and we’ve barely begun. The combination of knowing we’ll be on display (for ourselves), Josh giving orders, and the sight of him gloriously naked and half-erect is enough to drive me wild. I position myself according to his dictate and look over at the mirror, seeing the unmistakable arousal written on my face. Josh grabs a tube of lubricant and smears a generous amount over his fingers and cock, giving his shaft a few jerks for good measure to ensure he’s fully hard. I lick my lips at the sight of that proud column of flesh jutting up from a nest of light brown curls and the corner of my eye catches that action in the mirror, causing me to blush. It turns out Josh is right when he calls me shameless.

Two slick fingers ease in, quickly scissoring and curling before a third joins them. I let out a choked moan, wriggling helplessly on the penetration and bucking my hips in a silent plea for more. A low chuckle is the only response I get as Josh stretches me with the fingers of one hand and lightly strokes his cock with the other. “Josh... _please_!” I manage to beg. “I’m ready, I need you to fuck me with your gorgeous cock.” I give him my most abjectly submissive expression, arms raising above my head in a gesture of surrender.

Working his fingers out of my ass, Josh surprises me by pulling me into his lap and turning me so my back is to his chest and his hard, pulsing dick is pressed against the crack of my ass, both our legs hanging off the edge of the mattress. We’re directly facing the mirror and the sight makes my breath catch -- my legs are spread wide with Josh’s muscled thighs between them while my erection arcs up to my stomach, already glistening with the first drops of precum. Behind me, Josh takes a break from nuzzling my neck to glance up and catch my gaze in our shared reflection and the sudden darkening of his eyes tells me he’s as impossibly turned on by this as I am.

“See how beautiful you are?” he whispers. His hands settle on my hips, lifting me up until I feel the slippery head of his cock against my quivering asshole.

“Josh,” I gasp, my voice as soft as his.

“Do you see?”

“Y-yes.” I barely recognize myself. My eyes are wide and glassy and my mouth drops open for a silent scream as Josh urges me down, impaling me on his thick shaft with one swift movement.

“Fuck, Sam,” he mutters, his voice shaking. His lips trail over my neck, licking at the hollow above my collarbone. “Go on, babe. Put on a show.”

I lean back, bracing trembling hands on the mattress on either side of our joined bodies and raise up until just the tip of his cock is left inside then slowly slide back down, watching all the while as his erection disappears into my stretched hole; the vision is far more erotic than I ever dreamed. It takes a few tries given my divided attention between sight and sensation but I find a rhythm where I can fuck myself on his prick fast enough to satisfy both of us while allowing us to watch the steady in-and-out slide of his flesh as it claims my body over and over again. Never content to sit back and let me do all the work, Josh’s hands begin to roam, trailing barely-there touches over my straining erection and gently rubbing at the head until he collects enough precum for his fingers to be sticky when he presses them against my mouth. I open instinctively, cheeks hollowing as I suck at the pads of his fingers with the same fervor I always exhibit.

The truth is that Josh told me to put on a show and his words went only served to heighten my arousal, but we both know everything we’re doing is exactly what we’d do even if the mirror was absent. I’m not trying to be a porn star; I just want to see what it looks like when my boyfriend makes love to me. What did Josh say when he told me about the first time he got me naked? ‘The reality exceeded my wildest fantasies.’ That holds for this fantasy, too.

Josh’s fingers drop from my mouth and pluck at my sensitive nipples, scratching over the nubs while he wraps his free arm around my waist. With one hard, well-placed thrust he’s taken control and I happily lean back further against him and watch the mirror with wide eyes as his expression grows feral and he repeatedly shoves his cock up into me with no finesse or mercy, causing my already achingly hard dick to reach a level of arousal that’s all but unbearable. It’s exquisite to watch and even better to _feel_.

“Is this what you wanted to see?” His breath comes in quick, panting gasps. I nod helplessly, unable to form any coherent thought beyond reveling in the sensation of being fucked and filled.

His hand closes around my cock and I lose it, jerking up and shouting his name as a fountain of cum erupts and spatters my chest. Suddenly boneless in the wake of an overwhelming climax, I slump against Josh and continue watching as he tightens his hold on me and fucks me with abandon, our eyes still locked on each other through the shared reflection. I give my ass a slight clench and smirk lazily as Josh cries out and jackknifes up; a split second later I’m hit with the familiar sensation of his hot cum filling my well-fucked hole and I shudder at the feeling. It kills me every single time to have him claim me like this.

Eventually Josh urges me off his softening dick and maneuvers me onto my back with gentle movements, and I scoot back so my head is nestled on the pillows. After grabbing tissues from the nightstand to give my chest a quick clean-up I pull him down into a loose embrace. A smile crosses my face as I feel the rapid, heavy thud-thud-thud of his heart against my chest. This time when I look over at the mirror all I see is my perfect contentment. “Did that live up to your fantasy?” he asks at last, his breathing returning to normal after the workout we just gave ourselves.

“It went beyond my fantasies,” I assure him.

“I know it wasn’t quite what you’d talked about doing.”

“It was better.” My fingers make lazy paths through his sweat-damp hair, watching as it sticks up at a dozen odd angles. “Josh...remember how you said something like ‘look at how beautiful you are’?”

“Mm-hmm.” He turns his head and kisses my breastbone.

“I wasn’t watching myself. I was watching _us_ , watching _you_ and how you love me. That’s what was beautiful to me.” I tilt his face up and lean down awkwardly to brush my lips over his.

“You’re too much sometimes, you know that?” His mouth curves into a soft smile, eyes shining with emotion.

“I mean it, sweetheart. You’re the most beautiful man in the world.”

Josh scoffs and I cuff him lightly on the head. “Hey!”

“You are!”

“Sam, I—”

“To me, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Humbled, he swallows hard and kisses me with aching tenderness. “I feel the same way about you.”

“I know.”

“We should move the bed back.”

“Tomorrow. I don’t think I have the energy to lift a glass of water let alone a bed.”

“Do you have the energy to lift a washcloth, or should I do that for you?” Josh slides out of bed and stretches with a movement that betrays how graceful he can be.

“I’d appreciate the full service if it’s all the same to you.”

He grins and saunters towards the bathroom, allowing me a fine view of his perfect ass as it retreats from the room. My own smile threatens to split my face in two. God, but that man is beautiful, and he’s mine. I catch my reflection once more in the mirror and almost laugh at how lovestruck I look. Three years after Josh and I fell in love for the first time and I still can’t get enough of him. Really, I can’t imagine I’ll _ever_ get enough of him -- and that’s just fine by me.


	26. November 1987

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t need you to protect me!” I scream. “I don’t need you to be the hero who protects the poor little scared fairy!”

SAM POV

You know it’s true love when you ignore your high levels of stress and exhaustion to drive 250 miles to see your boyfriend after a torturous morning of studying the rule against perpetuities followed by an early afternoon exam on Crim Pro. Add to that the fact that it’s pouring rain, with the storm intensifying as I near Washington, and the horrendous traffic clogging the interstate and I am about ready to cry from how crappy this day has been by the time I park the car. What keeps me going is the mantra I’ve been chanting in my head all day -- I’m going to see Josh, so everything will be fine.

I am not handling our separation well. We’ve done this before, but that year between Princeton and Duke really spoiled me. It was fifteen full months of blissful cohabitation and even though it was my decision to go off to law school I’m having a difficult time doing this without Josh waiting for me at home every night. We both put in the work so neither feels neglected by the physical distance between us, with phone calls four or five nights a week and a return to our old practice of exchanging letters, but our visits have been sporadic. Josh drove down to visit me in September and October, and now I’m making my trip to him; only three visits in nearly three months, which is simply not enough. It’s not merely a question of how busy law school keeps me, since Josh was recently promoted to Brennan’s Chief of Staff (at the tender age of 28) and he’s working even longer hours than before. Most nights he’s at his office until 8:00, and he worked through last weekend. There is one upside, however, in that he has his own little office now and can close the door and call me from work when he has a few minutes to catch up. Still, it’s been rough on both of us and I feel a nagging guilt about making the choice to leave for school even if I’m not leaving _him_.

Shaking off my ponderous thoughts I grab my weekend bag and dash half a block through the rain until I reach the lobby of our building. It’s still _our_ apartment, _our_ building, regardless of the fact I’m spending eight months of the year in North Carolina. I’m barely inside when Josh materializes before me, kissing my cheek and handing me a towel. “You’re late,” he remarks as he watches me dry my hair and peel off my soaked sweater. Going by the grin on his face he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m left in just a damp, clingy white tee and my tight jeans.

“Traffic sucked and the weather sucks more,” I grumble. “Please tell me dinner is here.” Josh promised he’d take care of tonight’s meal, which means it’s a tossup between pizza and Chinese. All I care about is that it’s waiting for me, as I’m positively starving.

“The ingredients are here.”

“Josh!” I whine, thwacking him on the arm. “You seriously expect me to cook for you after five hours in the car on top of my exam today?”

“Hey, no need to get violent!” he yelps. “I’m not asking you to make the food.”

That stops me cold. Josh has a very real fear of cooking that’s a vestige of the trauma from the fire. It took him a year to admit it to me and I’ve never pushed him to get past it; I love to cook and enjoy making meals for him, and I’m okay with takeout and leftovers the rest of the time. “You’re cooking?” I ask gently.

“We don’t need to make a federal case out of this, do we?” He shifts from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable.

“No, we don’t. What are you making?”

“Chicken piccata and rice.”

“No vegetable?” I scold reflexively.

Josh laughs and swats me on the ass. “Salad from one of those packages. If you want to make yourself useful you can get that ready. There’s some wine on the dining room table, if you want to open it and have a drink while I do the heavy lifting.”

“That sounds perfect.” I give him a soft kiss.

I uncork the wine and pour two glasses, bringing them into the kitchen and setting one down on the counter for Josh. Leaning in the doorway I try to affect a casual demeanor as I watch him put the rice up and dredge the chicken in flour. Naturally, he sees right through me, though he doesn’t say a word. Once the chicken is in the pan I start prepping the salad, occasionally peek over as he expertly sautés the breasts and checks on the rice, managing two burners without appearing the least bit agitated. Much to my relief, dinner is on the table before my hunger gets the best of me. Josh dims the lights and puts on some music, and I’m touched by the effort he’s put into tonight; I pull him in for a swift kiss before we sit down for the meal which, by the way, is incredibly good.

“Josh?”

“Hmm?” He chases a bite of chicken with a long sip from his wine glass.

“You didn’t cook dinner tonight on a whim.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is too good to be the first meal you’ve cooked since your Fulbright year.”

He actually blushes. “Thanks. And yeah, I started cooking again about a month ago.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I got used to having you make dinner for us and I missed home-cooked meals when you went away. It’s not a big deal.”

Yes, it is. But I won’t push him further. “Well, if you’re this good after only a month, I can’t wait to see what awaits me the next time I visit. Now,” I say, pushing my glass toward him, “give me a refill on that wine.”

***********************************************************************************************************************

“You gonna help me clean up?”

“The dishes can wait.” I pin Josh to the counter and kiss him ferociously.

“Mmmph! Sam!” He laughs and puts his hands, wet and soapy from scrubbing pans, against my chest. “I gotta put the dishes in the dishwasher.”

“Fuck the dishes.”

“I’d rather fuck you,” he ripostes.

I fall to my knees, nuzzling his dick through the soft material of his pants. “Fuck my mouth,” I plead while undoing his pants without pulling them down and maneuvering the waistband of his boxers over the swelling shaft. “Need to taste you.”

Josh emits a sound rather like a growl and pulls my mouth onto the head of his cock. _This_ is what I’ve been missing. The smell and taste and feel of him assaults me, the force of my own desire almost rocking me back on my heels. I clasp my hands behind my back and look up at him from under lowered lashes, not making a move to draw him further into my mouth. It has the desired effect -- Josh makes that growling sound again and grabs my hair, shoving his entire length down my throat. There’s no way this is going to last, not after four weeks of nothing but phone sex and jerk-off sessions, and I have no doubt I’ll be equally if not more desperate when it’s my turn to get off. I relax my throat as much as I can and blink back tears from the brilliant pressure of his thick cock repeatedly ramming into my mouth. The first spurt of cum hits the back of my throat and I moan without shame as I swallow it down.

Keeping his grip tight on my hair, Josh staggers back and withdraws from my mouth despite my automatic whine of protest; then I realize why he’d do this and shut up so I can watch mesmerized as his climax continues, the rest of his sizable load splashing my face until his cock twitches one last time and falls limp between his thighs, strings of cum sticking to my lips and cheeks and one nearly gluing my lashes to the skin under my right eye. Josh helps me to my feet with a shaking hand and pulls me close, lapping at the mess on my face while he unzips my jeans and reaches past my underwear to pump my cock. I shove my briefs out of the way and allow him to draw me into a filthy kiss where he thrusts his tongue into my mouth in perfect synchronization with the rhythm of his long fingers on my dick. I cry out some babble that sounds vaguely like Josh’s name as I spill my seed over his hand, thrusting wildly into the tunnel of his fist.

For a while we stand there and continue to kiss -- both of us a total mess, both of us thoroughly debauched. Josh nimbly reaches behind himself with his clean hand and tears off a paper towel, dips it in the sudsy water in the sink, and uses it to wipe off the stickiness on his other hand.

“Guess what?”

“Hmm?” I’m still blissed out and barely coherent.

“You get a pass on helping me with clean-up after that blow job.”

“Yeah, I think I should focus on cleaning my face,” I say, grimacing as a flake of drying cum sticks to my fingers when I rub my cheek.

“You look cute like this,” he teases.

I roll my eyes. “Pervert.”

“I’m not a pervert, I’m a deviant sodomite. There’s a difference.”

“If you say so,” I laugh.

“Want me to show you how deviant a sodomite I can be?” Josh waggles his eyebrows.

“Wash the damned dishes,” I order, kissing his cheek and going inside to clean up.

***********************************************************************************************************************

Josh proves his sodomite bona fides a few minutes later when he joins me in the bedroom and pins me to the mattress, delivering a hard, fast fuck that makes me scream. There will be bruises on my hips tomorrow and I have no complaints about that. In the afterglow, he challenges me to a five-fuck weekend, reminding me we’ve already done forty percent of the work. (We don’t quibble over semantics here -- any sex where we both get off equals a fuck even if it’s not anal penetration.) It’s an offer I can’t refuse.

***********************************************************************************************************************

Saturday morning comes, then so do Josh and I. It’s simply a lazy jerk-off session in the tub as we shower, my hand on his dick and his fingers teasing my cock and balls while stringing love bites over my chest. When we’re done, the sight of Josh in a white towel slung low around his hips nearly makes me drag him back to bed; somehow I resist the temptation. It’s good to pace yourself.

***********************************************************************************************************************

That afternoon we take a break from watching college football so I can kiss every inch of Josh’s body: the strong legs (jogging three mornings a week pays major dividends), the taut cheeks of his ass, the broad chest, the spot under his ear that always makes him moan, more or less everything except his throbbing erection. When I’ve had enough fun teasing him I lower myself onto his prick and ride him to completion, the sensation of his cum filling my ass spurring me to my own furious climax.

***********************************************************************************************************************

Much as I would love for Josh to cook another great dinner, I can’t turn down his offer to take me out to our favorite Indian restaurant. It’s in his old neighborhood and we decide to walk; yesterday’s cold rain has moved out and now it’s positively balmy for November in D.C., the temperature hovering in the low fifties. The meal is a quiet affair -- shared samosas and naan and chicken tikka masala at a corner table, his hand ‘accidentally’ grazing my knee every so often. I talk a lot about my classes and Josh listens raptly, his smile conveying the kind of support that makes it possible for me to deal with critical professors and impossible exams and the hundreds of miles that separate us most of the time. There’s no question in my mind that he’s happy for me, difficult as this separation may be, and I’m impossibly lucky to have him as my partner.

The wind is picking up as we wind our way back home and I’m grateful for the body heat as Josh huddles close, his hand discreetly slipping into mine. We’re halfway between the restaurant and our apartment when we stroll past a bar with rock music spilling out the open door and a group of frat bros drinking beer on the sidewalk. After being out for three years, I have a fairly well-honed sense of when I’m in hostile territory, and that sense kicks in here even before I see one guy’s face curl into a sneer.

“Faggots!” another bro yells.

“Points for creativity there,” Josh mutters under his breath.

“Josh, shut up,” I hiss.

“Yo, cocksuckers!” a third guy crows, following us as we walk down the block at a quicker pace. Self-preservation kicks in and I try to pull my hand from Josh’s, but he holds it firm. “Cocksuckers!” the guy yells again.

Suddenly a narrow object flies past my head, missing by about an inch, and the sound of shattering glass rises above the continued taunts. I stare at the remnants of a beer bottle lying on the pavement, its contents trickling through a crack in the sidewalk, and all I have is a split second of warning in the form of Josh’s hand clenching mine so hard it’s painful before he lets go and whirls around, storming the asshole and slamming him against a deserted store front. My heart is in my throat as he keeps the guy pinned while staring at him with a look of pure rage I’ve never seen before.

“You got a problem?” Josh shouts. Whatever the guy was expecting us to do when he threw that bottle, it wasn’t _this_. He’s wide-eyed with fear, as if realizing for the first time that Josh has about four inches and twenty pounds on him. “What, you think queers can’t fight back?!”

“I...I…” Asshole bro looks over at his friends, who are similarly stunned and make no move to help.

Josh eases his grip, then shakes his head and lets go. Grabbing my hand again he starts off down the street as if nothing happened while I compulsively turn around every few steps to make sure we’re not being followed. “Nobody’s behind us, Sam,” he says in a low voice after we cross the street and turn a corner. Neither of us speaks again until we get home.

The second the front door closes I take off my coat and practically throw it at him. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“What?!”

“The guy could have punched you! He could have had a weapon!”

Josh stares at me in disbelief. “He threw a bottle at your head, Sam! You could have been seriously injured and all because we dared to hold hands in public, and you think _I’m_ the one who did the wrong thing?”

“You should have walked away!”

“Not when someone put you in danger!”

“The bottle missed!”

“Oh, so no harm, no foul?” he spits out.

“Josh--”

“You’re right, we should bend over backwards to appease violent bigots! Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“You need to calm down,” I say, putting my hands up.

“Is that why you tried to let go of my hand when they started in on us?”

I flinch. “I thought maybe if we...I thought it would make things worse.”

“They’d already figured out we’re faggots,” Josh says, biting off the word like it’s a poison pill. “All you were doing was letting them know they’d won.”

“I wasn’t! I got scared, it was instinct!”

“Your instinct is to slink back to the closet when some drunken assholes call us names?”

“That’s not fair!”

“You thought if you hid everything would be fine.”

“Goddamnit, Josh, can you--”

“How’d that work out for you in high school?” he sneers.

I reel back as if he’d hit me. “Fuck you,” I whisper. “Fuck you.”

Josh clenches his jaw and looks away, his hands curling into fists and then uncurling again. “Look, I--”

“It was easy for you, wasn’t it? You were the popular kid, the one who was tall and ran track and was never going to be pushed around by anyone. Do you know how many black eyes I got? How many split lips? Did I ever tell you about the time Bobby Zane slammed me against the lockers hard enough I got a concussion? I wasn’t even out back then, as you so kindly reminded me. What do you think it would have been like if I had said the words? Do you think that would have made my life any better? I know you enjoy being a massive asshole when the mood strikes you but you don’t get to be superior about _this_. It was absolutely a matter of safety for me to be in the closet back then and you know that! I’ve told you that! Yeah, I panicked when I made that move to drop your hand but that’s because I’ve been on the receiving end of abuse from guys like that, and I’m not talking about being called a faggot!”

“That’s why I was trying to protect you!” he yells desperately.

“I don’t need you to protect me!” I scream. “I don’t need you to be the hero who protects the poor little scared fairy!”

“Jesus Christ!” Josh explodes. “I did it because I love you! Because you could have been seriously hurt and nobody gets to treat you like that, and because if you weren’t going to stand up for yourself then I had to! This wasn’t some punk teenager in the locker room, Sam, it was a grown man using you for target practice!”

And that’s the part that terrifies me. High school jocks I knew how to handle, regardless of whether they beat me up or not. Adults throwing bottles at me and Josh because they reject our right to be happy? That’s different. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I grit out, trying like hell to push down the choking thickness in my throat.

“Sam.” He reaches for me and I shrug his hand off my shoulder, storming to the bedroom. “Hey!” He’s caught up with me in a flash and spins me around, concern looming in his brown eyes. “Don’t walk away from me, Sam!”

“I can’t…” Fuck, I’m crying.

“Shit,” Josh mutters. His arms wrap around me and for all my protests that I don’t need him to protect me I sink into the embrace with a muffled sob escaping against his neck. Out of nowhere I’m trembling all over and he tries as best he can to soothe me with one hand making sweeping circles up and down my back. “I’m sorry about what I said. That was wrong and it was unfair. You’re so incredibly strong and I _am_ a massive asshole.”

“You’re not, really,” I say between sobs. “But that fucking hurt, Josh.”

“I know. I wish I could take it back.”

I step back and shake my head as if it’ll help clear my thoughts. “I’m going to go out for a bit.”

“What do you mean?” Josh frowns as he uses the pads of his thumbs to wipe away the tear tracks on my face.

“I need a little time to clear my head.”

“Sam?” I don’t blame him for looking wary. I’ve been all over the place with my moods since we got home.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to jump into the Potomac,” I say with a weak smile. “I need to get outside and breathe.”

“Let me come with you.”

“No, Josh. I’ll be back in an hour or so, I promise. Just let me breathe for a bit, okay?” I pat his arm and walk back to the living room, shrugging on my coat as I slip out the door.

***********************************************************************************************************************

“87 minutes,” Josh says by way of greeting when I return home and find him lying on his back in bed with one arm flung over his head.

“I said an hour or so,” I remind him. “I think 87 minutes falls under that umbrella.”

Slowly I remove my clothing until I’m only wearing boxers and socks, and climb under the covers with him. Josh is just in an old Mets tee-shirt and flannel pajama pants. He’s adorable. I kiss him, gentle and loving, and place a palm on the solid planes of his chest. “You feeling any better?” he asks tentatively.

“A little. I don’t know.” I shift so my hand is tracing the lines of Josh’s face, over his nose and cheeks and lips. “Sometimes I get so used to dealing with the day-to-day bullshit that I forget the more extreme…” I trail off, my throat closing up.

“I know. That’s why I’m not going to apologize for protecting you. The slurs weren’t a shock but the bottle _was_ , and I acted on instinct. Don’t lie there and tell me you wouldn’t have gone ballistic if that bottle had hit _me_.”

“Of course I would have,” I admit. “But I don’t think I would have gone after the guy like you did.”

“Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t have felt the same rage.” He pauses. “I’m using a few too many double negatives here.”

“You’re forgiven,” I say lightly.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier, about high school.”

“You’re forgiven,” I say again.

“That easy, huh?”

“I’d rather focus my anger where it really belongs. Besides, your point wasn’t wholly without merit.”

“Yes, it was!” Josh sits up, knocking me on my back in the process.

“You were right to call me out on being scared!”

“Wait a second, hold on!” he exclaims, waving his arms frantically. “I wasn’t angry at you for being afraid. I was hurt because you showed your fear by trying to pull away! God, Sam, I was afraid, too -- I was afraid for you!”

I can’t quite wrap my head around what he’s telling me. “You were afraid?”

“Scared shitless,” Josh says with a mirthless laugh.

“I don’t understand -- you didn’t even flinch when you went after that guy. You didn’t look scared to me.”

“I got physical with this guy because I was desperate to keep him from going after you again and that was the only thing I could come up with. Yeah, I was angry as hell. I was also terrified that if I didn’t do something to intimidate him and his buddies they’d follow us and things would get even uglier. We’ve had shit yelled at us before but seeing how close that thing came to hitting your head...I snapped.” He exhales and dips his head to kiss me. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. And I’ll never pull away from you again,” I vow.

Josh kisses my hair and sighs. “I know you said you forgave me, but I’m saying sorry one more time.”

My hands find his, giving a squeeze. “Thank you.”

“I’ll never understand how anyone can think this is wrong,” he says suddenly. The words cause my chest to ache, and the notion of Josh being as scared as I was has left me reeling. “I don’t get how my loving you has any kind of negative impact on someone else, or how anyone could look at what we have and think it’s disgusting.”

“I don’t want to think about that,” I tell him in a firm voice. “I don’t want to let them in, not here. They can’t get in here unless we let them.” I kiss him hard, demonstrating the endless passion I feel for this extraordinary man. He responds immediately, draping his body over mine in a gesture that’s part protective, part stimulating. This is not exactly how I pictured the culmination of his five-times-in-a-weekend challenge; I had visions of another torrid fuck laced with obscene words and shameless actions. Instead I’m consumed by a sudden, real need to _make_ love, to _affirm_ our love. Judging by the way Josh is skimming his fingers along my thighs I think he must feel the same way.

Not one word is spoken as he undresses me before removing his own clothes, trailing kisses over my chest and stomach as I twist towards the nightstand and grab the lubricant from where we left it earlier today. After our previous activities it’s understood that I don’t need any preparation to accommodate him for a third time in twenty-four hours, and Josh simply kneels between my legs and pushes in, a shaky exhale escaping his lips when he’s fully seated within me. All weekend our couplings have been frantic -- even this afternoon, after I finished teasing him, the actual fuck was quick and dirty, focused on physical pleasure rather than emotional connection. This is the opposite. This is Josh rocking against me, his thrusts as gentle as they are shallow, his eyes roaming over me with undisguised tenderness in place of the naked lust he displayed hours earlier.

I arch up to meet his thrusts, tangling my fingers in his unruly hair and pulling him down for a kiss that mirrors the slow pace of his thrusting. “Love you,” he murmurs against my lips. “God, I love you.”

“Josh,” I whisper, the sound turning into a gasp as he angles his cock against my prostate.

“Sam, my Sam…” He’s thrusting quicker now, punctuated by short gasps. I trace my fingers over his chest, feeling the sculpted muscle, then slide them around to dig into his back in an effort to pull him even closer. My eyes stay fixed on his face and the beauty I find there. Josh’s soft lips, his deep brown eyes, his small ears and perfect nose, his pale skin flushed with desire -- it all combines to steal my breath and nearly stop my heart.

While one hand stays firm on his back, the other trails over my chest and stomach until I card my fingers through the coarse hair at the base of my cock and wrap my hand around my erection. He’s now watching me as closely as I watch him, his eyes turning dark as I jerk my cock in time with his rhythm. Then he swoops down for an all-consuming kiss, my fingers faltering as I melt against his lips and tongue as they lay claim to my own mouth. The kiss continues for long minutes as he slows down again, making this last so we can savor our closeness. The sound of our bodies joining fills my ears, joined by the occasional muffled moan or sigh as we lose ourselves in each other, a ritual that never turns routine no matter how many times it plays out.

I come with a muted whimper, clinging desperately to Josh as I spill my seed over my hand and stomach. He finally ends our marathon kiss and buries his head in the crook of his neck, chanting my name like a benediction, warm puffs of breath ghosting over my heated skin. I can’t stop holding on to him, my nails digging into his shoulders; his thrusts are deeper now as he nears his climax, and I’m moaning again with every pass of his cock over my prostate. He bucks almost violently and lets out a harsh gasp as he jerks his hips once more and spends himself deep within me, never once taking his eyes off mine. The love in his gaze is deep and true, and I close my eyes briefly trying to imprint the image in my brain.

The next several minutes are spent lying in silence, Josh withdrawing from my body but his touch lingering over my chest and arms and throat, punctuated by occasional kisses following the path of his fingertips. I feel cherished. I feel _safe_. Cradling his head as I kiss him, I try with everything I have to make him feel the same way. His poker face is as bad as ever, and I know without a doubt that my efforts are successful.

“They can’t get in here unless we let them,” he whispers, echoing my sentiment from before.

“No, they can’t.” I wrap him in the tightest embrace I can muster. “They can’t touch what we have, Josh -- no matter how hard they try, no matter what they do. What we have is sacred and nobody can take that away from us.”

“I love you,” he says simply. “I love you so much I can’t stand it sometimes.” Dropping a kiss on my hair, he slides out of bed and urges me to my feet. “Let’s clean you up and then you can do your maniacal tooth brushing thing.”

“It’s not maniacal,” I protest weakly.

“Uh-huh.”

Once we’re back in bed with the lights out I nestle close to him and draw the blankets up around us to ward off the November chill. We’re both naked and I intend for us to stay that way until tomorrow for reasons that have nothing to do with the prospect of morning sex. Sure, that would be nice (beyond nice, really) but it’s not my motivation. All I want tonight is to be close to Josh; I _need_ it, and to gauge his mood by how he’s pulled me so I’m half-draped over his body with his chin resting on top of my head he needs that closeness, too.

“You realize that if we wake up like this I’m probably going to insist on extending our challenge to six times in one weekend,” Josh says at last, and I smile against where my face is tucked into the hollow above his collarbone. “Just giving you fair warning.”

“I think I can handle it.”

“Yeah, you can.”

“Josh,” I admonish, “can we go to sleep please?”

“Ah-kay.”

His arms tighten around me and I let the rhythm of his steady breathing serve as my lullaby as I drift off to sleep.


	27. November 1987

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not simply a Thanksgiving celebration, I realize. It’s a quiet intervention. And the fact that Sam and his family are here makes it impossible for Leo to raise hell about all of this.

JOSH POV

Most people would not choose to take a series of trains from Durham to Westport the day before Thanksgiving when they have the option of driving from Durham to D.C. and catching a ride with their boyfriend up to Westport. Most people are not Sam. Believe me when I say that I don’t take his decision not to ride up with me as a personal slight. He’s been killing himself all semester as he adapts to the rigors of law school and he has a major exam the day classes resume next week; at least on Amtrak he can read and re-read his textbooks without getting carsick or dealing with my expletive-laced rants at the other drivers on the road. It also gives me a cushion to make sure everything is in place for his surprise.

This is the third year we’ve spent Thanksgiving in Connecticut; next month will mark the third Christmas we’ll spend in Orange County. After seeing how well my parents and Sam’s hit it off when they had overlapping visits last summer, I hatched a plan to get the Seaborns to join us for Turkey Day this year. Mom and Dad were eager to host them, and Bill and Betty jumped at the chance to spend extra time with their only child. The shock and awkwardness of Sam being gay seems to have long since melted away for them, and now he’s back to being their golden boy. To my shock, they’ve accepted me into their family going back to the first time I flew out there two years ago and Betty chose to support our relationship when her family refused to let me attend their annual Christmas Day gathering. Sometimes I suspect she has moments where she wishes Sam was straight -- Sam suspects this as well -- but she’s doing a pretty good job of being the kind of mom my boyfriend deserves. And Bill is unwavering in his support, even if he’s as low-key and stoic as his son is emotionally transparent. It’s a good family and I have to admit I feel fortunate to be a part of it.

Which brings us to the reason I’m doing this in the first place. I consider Sam to be my husband. We may not use that word, or have a piece of paper to that effect, but we are each other’s family nonetheless. By extension, his parents are a part of my family and vice versa. After three years together, two of them as an unofficially married couple, it’s a little ridiculous that our respective sets of parents have only spent a grand total of one day together. And while I don’t get sentimental about holidays, Thanksgiving seemed like the perfect opportunity to get everyone under one roof to celebrate the various bonds between us.

Bill and Betty flew in last night and so far my plan seems to be working out. It’s true, the Seaborn parents and the Lyman parents don’t have much in common at first glance. Sam’s parents are conservative Democrats who don’t care much for political discussion and mine are firebrand liberals who marched for civil rights in the fifties and sixties. Betty Seaborn is a high-strung lady who lunches and, according to Sam, sublimated most of her identity when she became a wife and mother. Clara Lyman is the kind of feminist who once dragged her teenaged son to watch Gloria Steinem give an address on women’s rights. Bill Seaborn is a cookie-cutter reserved WASPy type who tells his son he loves him once every two or three years. Noah Lyman is effusively affectionate and every bit as overbearing a parent as his wife. Like I said -- not much in common. But I suppose they have _us_ in common, and that was enough to lay a foundation for a friendship. Last night all four of them stayed up late playing Scrabble, drinking wine, and swapping embarrassing tales about their sons.

Score one for Josh Lyman’s ability to scheme with the best of them.

On top of all that, the McGarrys are joining us this year. From what I can gather Leo isn’t particularly close to his sisters, and Jenny’s brother lives in London so they accepted Dad’s invitation to celebrate with us. It’s not the first time we’ve spent Thanksgiving together, but the previous time we did so was back when I was a freshman at Harvard and Mallory was a pigtailed nine-year-old who followed me around like a puppy. In fact, I’ve only seen her a handful of times since then; she spent her teen years at boarding school and she’s now a junior at Penn, so she’s only rarely in D.C. She’s a fun kid, though. _‘Wait a second,’_ my treacherous brain reminds me, _‘she’s only three years younger than Sam.’_ Damn. I don’t think I can call her a kid anymore unless I want to feel weird about how old -- or young -- my boyfriend is.

Thankfully I am saved from some serious navel-gazing about the inconsequential age difference in my relationship when Sam’s train pulls into the Westport station precisely on schedule. I fairly leap out of my car so I can meet him halfway across the parking lot. He’s bundled up in his black pea jacket and that gray cashmere scarf I bought him for Christmas last year. (I don’t know anything about fashion but I know that Sam looks _amazing_ in any shade of gray.) I grab his overnight bag and sling it over my shoulder a split second before he leans in and gives me a kiss.

The last time we spent together was a tumultuous weekend earlier this month that started out as a fun, sex-filled escapade and turned dark midway through when a walk home from dinner led to being yelled at for being faggot cocksuckers and having a bottle pitched at Sam’s head. Having slurs screamed at us is hardly a novel experience; I wish I could say it was. But I’ve never had it escalate to violence before, and Sam hadn’t endured anything like that since he was in high school. The stress was not limited to that moment, as we snapped at one another when we got home and I said something almost unforgivably stupid, branding him a coward without saying that word. Like many of the times Sam’s forgiven me for being an asshole I wasn’t ready to forgive myself yet. All I could do to try and earn the absolution he’d granted me was to demonstrate with my words and actions that I adore him beyond reason, and we made love that night with a tenderness that usually eludes us. That’s not to say that we don’t have countless sweet, quiet moments; it’s more that once the clothes come off our physical desire is strong enough that we channel our love through lust and don’t settle back into tenderness until we’re in the stage of postcoital bliss. There are some times, however, when it’s not about physical desire at all, not in any meaningful sense. That night was one of those times, when all that mattered was caring for Sam in every way imaginable and that included making love.

All I want for the next four days is to keep Sam close to me; I want to hold him at night and steal kisses and touches during the day. The sweetness with which he’s kissing me now, his hand clasping the lapel of my coat as he quickly swipes his tongue over my bottom lip, is proof he wants the same thing. “Hi there,” he says, a satisfied grin crossing his face.

“Hi yourself, babe. How was the train?”

“My back is killing me from those crappy seats.”

“Want me to give you a back rub later?”

“Do you know how to give back rubs?” he asks, eyeing me with skepticism.

“I know how to make you feel good,” I say with a leer.

“Josh, can we get in the car before you start molesting me in the parking lot in front of all these nice families?” he laughs, gesturing to the people milling around us.

“You’re no fun,” I grumble.

***********************************************************************************************************************

My parents bought this house in January 1967, two months after the fire; it’s a huge colonial house in a cul-de-sac that always felt far too big for the three of us, as if Mom and Dad made sure there were a few extra bedrooms in case Joanie ever materialized and needed a place to stay. I was seven when we moved in and for the next decade until I went off to college most of the seminal moments of my life happened here. I opened my acceptance letter from Harvard in the front yard, unable to even make it to the house before my curiosity got the better of me after I picked up the mail. I came out to my parents in the living room. I worked out my sexuality in my head as I sat on the swings in the backyard one Saturday afternoon when I was in eighth grade.

The few times I fooled around after coming out in my freshman year of high school – with ostensibly straight guys who couldn’t help but be curious about what their queer classmate might have to offer, which never lead to anything beyond kissing and a few jerk-off sessions – always took place somewhere other than my house. Once I got to college I figured out I didn’t want boyfriends; I wanted sex and a lot of it, and I wanted as few emotional entanglements as possible. My parents hovered, smart enough to know I was getting laid and voicing their hope that one of the boys I met would end up becoming an actual romantic partner rather than merely a warm body to keep me company for a few weeks. They were flat-out over the moon when I introduced them to Sam and were equally ecstatic when I dragged him to Westport for our first Thanksgiving together the following year.

By the first time I brought Sam here we were a deeply committed couple; we’d already said our little secret vows to each other on Rehoboth Beach. Suddenly I was sleeping in my childhood bedroom with Sam sprawled across me and it was the most natural thing in the world. He talked politics with Dad on the front porch and helped Mom prepare Thanksgiving dinner, and we sat on the swings that still stand in the backyard and talked for an hour despite the creeping chill in the air. I didn’t even really mind when Mom got out the photo album and showed Sam pictures from my bar mitzvah.

Now that we’re on our third year of Thanksgiving pilgrimages -- no pun intended -- to my parents’ house it truly is the most natural thing in the world to watch him bound through the front door and be swept up into a hug from Mom. Dad catches my eye and nods discreetly to let me know Bill and Betty are keeping quiet in the kitchen so I can shock the hell out of Sam with their presence in a few minutes, then pulls Sam into an embrace of his own. They both fuss over him and ask a dozen questions about how law school is progressing. Mom takes Sam’s coat from him and hangs it in the hall closet, clucking disapprovingly as she gets a look at my boyfriend’s slim frame.

“You’re too skinny, Sam,” she admonishes. “This is just like how Josh lost ten pounds his first year at Yale.”

“I’m sure you can fatten me up over the next few days,” Sam says good-naturedly.

“Josh, take Sam into the kitchen,” Mom orders. “Dinner’s not ready yet but there’s some cheese and crackers we can use to force-feed you.” Nicely played, Mom.

“Oh, I’m not really hungry. I’d rather save myself for dinner. Josh mentioned you’re making brisket and I don’t want to wreck my appetite--”

“Sam, it’s best not to argue with a Jewish mother pushing food on you,” Dad chuckles. Good save, Dad.

“Come on,” I urge, a hand on his back as I steer him to the kitchen. “At the very least I can get you a beer.”

“Do you think I’m too skinny?” Sam whispers.

“Nah, don’t listen to her.”

“I know I’ve slimmed down but getting to the gym is impossible now that -- holy shit!” Sam stops in his tracks when we cross the threshold into the kitchen.

“Watch your language, Samuel,” Betty scolds, though she’s smiling as she walks over to him and enfolds him in a hug.

“What are you guys doing here?!” The clear ebullience in his expression leaves me feeling very pleased with myself. “Dad, oh my God!”

Bill gives Sam a firm handshake and claps him on the shoulder. “Your boyfriend got it into his head that you might like to have us here as a surprise. We’ve had the tickets for six weeks and it’s been hell trying to keep your mother from spilling the beans.”

“You did this?” he asks me with a beaming smile that makes me feel warm all the way down to my toes.

“Yeah. I figured it’d be nice to have a holiday with both our families.” I shrug, trying to play it off as no big deal.

“Josh, you…” He hugs me tightly and gives me a quick, firm kiss. I’m certain he’d do more than that were his parents not standing right behind him and mine following us in from the living room. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now you should seriously eat those cheese and crackers before my mom gives you a feeding tube.”

“Joshua, I would never do such a thing!” Mom exclaims. “But he really should eat more.”

“You _are_ very thin,” Betty says, pinching Sam’s arm in what I suppose is some weird attempt to determine his body fat content.

“Josh, you know how I indicated a second ago that having my mom here was a great idea?” Sam groans.

“Don’t finish that thought if you know what’s good for you, son,” Bill laughs.

For once in his life, Sam knows when to shut up.

***********************************************************************************************************************

Thanksgiving morning dawns with below-freezing temperatures and a threat of snow in the forecast. Breakfast is a communal affair but as soon as the dishes are cleared Sam and I sneak off to the living room for a more private chat. We could go up to my bedroom, but it’s awkward enough stealing away upstairs when one set of parents is home, let alone two -- regardless of the fact we’re not intending to do anything beyond talk. Well, we might snuggle a little. Okay, I tuck an arm around Sam the moment we’re on the couch and he lets his fingertips graze the skin he finds under the hem of my sweater. But we’re not going to be reckless when faced with the reality that any one of four parents could come in at any moment, and with our luck it would be my alarmingly sex-positive mother. Mom once sent me a huge strip of condoms when I was living in England, as if I wouldn’t be able to find prophylactics there. When Sam first came to Westport she embarrassed the hell out of us by bidding goodnight with a cheery, ‘your father and I are going to be downstairs for a while so don’t worry about us overhearing anything.’ That was more than enough to put us off sex for the night. Last year, when Sam and I were both working in Washington she told me I had to be sure our work schedules left enough time for our relationship, helpfully adding, ‘yes, I’m including sex in that equation.’

So naturally it _is_ Mom who strolls in and smiles at us. “I’m so glad you have this time together.”

“So are we,” I respond, hoping she’ll behave.

“Would you like to have the house to yourselves for an hour? The McGarrys won’t be here until noon and your father and I would be happy to take Sam’s parents on a tour of Westport so you boys can...reconnect.”

“Mom, go away!”

“You seem very tense, Josh.”

“Mom!” I give her my fiercest glare while Sam is simultaneously cracking up and blushing a deep crimson, and we’re both relieved when my mother smirks and retreats back to the kitchen. “She does that on purpose,” I mutter.

“No shit,” Sam giggles.

“I think I need therapy.”

“I think so too, but not for that.”

“Oh, that’s nice!” I haul him in for a kiss.

So we end up making out anyway, at least until we’re interrupted by Sam’s father wandering in and clearing his throat. “Sam,” he says in a voice tinged by exasperation, “I believe the bedroom you two are using is only a short distance away if you need some alone time. Other people may want to use that couch later without thinking about what you and Josh have been doing there.”

Now I think _Sam_ needs therapy.

***********************************************************************************************************************

Mallory McGarry isn’t quite like a little sister to me, as much as Leo’s become a surrogate father since I moved to Washington. She’s more like that cousin you see every couple of years who makes you laugh a lot but is also kind of exhausting to be around. Yes, she’s all grown up now, her red hair pulled back with a scrunchie and coated with enough hairspray to singlehandedly wreck the ozone layer, dressed in an oversized sweater and a tiny denim skirt that I know her parents can’t be happy she owns, paired with ribbed tights and Converse sneakers. To top it all off she’s got a weird shade of plum lipstick that even I know isn’t right for her coloring. She’s a walking monument to bad fashion and I kind of love her for showing up with an I-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-propriety attitude.

She’s also barely speaking to Leo. And it becomes clear early on that Jenny is more reserved than usual, which is saying a lot. I find myself wishing I knew how to take Leo aside and ask if everything is okay, but I think that would only serve to embarrass him. The good news is that Sam’s parents have no clue anything is wrong with the McGarry family -- even when Leo downs two drinks at an alarming clip once he’s in the door, he doesn’t miss a beat before making comfortable small talk with the Seaborns. I figured out a long time ago that Leo is an alcoholic. Given the way my dad eyes him with concern once every few minutes it’s clear he’s aware of this, too. When Leo reaches to pour himself a third glass of wine, Dad claps him on the shoulder and steers him out of the kitchen, saying something about wanting to consult with him on a potential investment. When they return an hour later, Leo looks ashy and shaken, and Dad gives Jenny a reassuring look that actually gets her to smile a little.

It’s not simply a Thanksgiving celebration, I realize. It’s a quiet intervention. And the fact that Sam and his family are here makes it impossible for Leo to raise hell about all of this.

***********************************************************************************************************************

My mother started a Thanksgiving tradition the year we moved into this house where everyone has to say one thing they’re thankful for before we eat. It was one of the many ways Mom tried with all her might to salvage the positive things in our life after Joanie’s death. I’ll be honest and say I hate this tradition. Naturally Sam loves it, and something tells me I’m going to be stuck with it for decades to come, even when my parents are long gone and we’re having holiday celebrations on our own.

When it’s my turn I say, truthfully, that I’m thankful for my promotion to Brennan’s Chief of Staff and that the Seaborn and McGarry families are all here today. Sam gives thanks for his parents’ presence and for my supporting his decision to go to law school, and squeezes my knee under the table. Leo mumbles his thanks for Jenny and Mallory in vague terms, and Jenny thanks my parents for being such good friends. Mallory rattles off a list of mundane shit ranging from the cost of gas being lower to her earth sciences course being scandalously easy, taking a page from my playbook and trying to defuse the awkward emotion in the room.

It’s only later that I spy her in the dining room with Dad after everyone else has moved to the den to watch a movie, giving my father a long hug and listening as he talks to her in a low voice. I try to duck away before she turns around and sees me, but I’m too slow. She has unshed tears in her eyes and doesn’t even spare me a glance as she makes her way upstairs to one of the guest bedrooms, the door slamming shut behind her.

“You know better than to eavesdrop, Josh,” Dad tells me with a heavy sigh.

“I couldn’t hear anything,” I clarify. “What’s going on?”

“We’re trying to get Leo some help. Nothing too formal, nothing that could jeopardize his career if anyone found out – informal alcohol counseling, that kind of thing. Jenny and I have been pushing him to go to rehab without any success, so we’ll take what we can get right now. It’s been a long process and I doubt he’s going to even agree to the counseling.” He fixes me with a stare. “Needless to say, I don’t want you telling anyone about this. That includes Sam.”

“I think Sam’s already noticed Leo drinks a lot, Dad.”

“I don’t want it discussed with anyone unless you have express permission from Leo. This isn’t a subject for gossip.”

Well, I’m never going to bring this up with Leo, so I’ll abide by Dad’s mandate and keep Sam in the dark. I’ve never kept a secret from him, but Dad’s right. This doesn’t concern Sam and it doesn’t even really concern me. “I understand,” I tell him solemnly. “Listen, I’m gonna go see if Mal wants to talk. She probably won’t, but…” Dad nods and gives me a gentle shove towards the stairs.

Mallory doesn’t answer when I knock, and I figure since it’s my house I have the right to barge in regardless. She’s curled up on the bed, sniffling loudly and staring into space. “I don’t want to talk.”

“Okay.” I hover anyway, feeling like I should do _something_.

“Josh,” she warns.

“I just wanted to say that if you need to talk, I won’t repeat anything. Not to your parents, not to my parents.” I’m answered with stony silence. “Your dad loves you a lot, Mal.”

“Oh, get off it,” she snarls, sitting up and pinning me with an angry glare. “If he loved me he’d stop this!

“Maybe he’s trying and he can’t.”

“Just because my dad thinks he’s informally adopted you doesn’t mean you know what’s going on with us, okay? You’re _not_ a member of my family. Dad always talks about how great you are, like how he gets to have a son around -- but you don’t ever have to deal with him the way I do. You’ve never seen him hopped up on seven drinks and yelling at me for being a total failure because I put the dishes away in the wrong place! You don’t have to handle him when Mom leaves for a weekend to get away from the Scotch and the mood swings, and he tells me over and over I’m betraying him when I won’t tell him where she’s gone! He’s not your dad, Josh, he’s mine! He’s not your problem, and I’m not either, so please go back downstairs and leave me the fuck alone!”

“Mal…” I step towards the bed and she collapses crying into the pillows. There’s no way I’m leaving her like this. A few years ago I probably would have, but in my time with Sam I’ve learned I’m actually pretty good at caring for people if I can keep from shooting my mouth off. I sit down next to her and pull her into a tentative hug, somehow avoiding wincing when she digs her nails into my arms as she clings to me.

“I hate him,” she says at last. “And I hate _her_ for enabling him.”

“I thought she was trying to get him into rehab.”

“Only because your father wouldn’t leave it alone. Can we switch dads? Seriously, my dad likes you better than me, and I think your parents miss having a daughter.”

I ignore the second part of her statement. “Your dad doesn’t like me better--”

“Sure he does. He wanted a son and got a daughter, and I don’t like politics or sports the way you do.”

“Mal, he’s nuts about you. He is! He brags about you every time I see him. How else would I know that you made it into that a cappella group last semester, or that you had the good sense to dump that guy you were dating.”

“Darren?”

“Yeah, he told me how he wasn’t good enough for you and he was glad you broke up with him. He loves you, Mallory, he’s just...he’s sick. I don’t know a lot about addiction, but I know it can’t make him stop loving you. And believe me, if he actually had to be a parent to me I doubt he would like me as much as he does now.”

Mallory laughs weakly. “I’m a little freaked out by Nice Josh.”

“I can bring the empathy when I need to.”

“I guess you had to find some way to keep that cute guy of yours.”

“Don’t worry, I give him plenty of incentives to stick around.”

Her laugh is more genuine this time. “Ew, gross. Can you, like, not make me picture you having sex? You’re like a stepbrother or something.”

“Or something.” I tousle her hair, which is entirely worth the glare it earns me.

“Now, Sam I don’t mind picturing naked,” she continues.

“Hey!”

“You sure he’s _totally_ gay? Because I’ve had a horrible month and I’ll tell you that could really put a smile back on my face. Just one little kiss, no tongue. Okay, a little tongue.”

“Stop it,” I order. “And don’t mentally undress my boyfriend. Get one of your own.”

“Fine,” she sighs. “Does he have a brother?”

“No!”

She punches my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal your man.”

“I’d actually pay good money to see you try.”

“Pretty confident there, skipper.” Mallory smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re sweet together. Is it tough for you guys? I can’t imagine...I mean, _I_ get pissed off about some of the things I hear and I’m not gay.”

“We manage.” Sam and I aren’t really telling our families about the incident a few weeks ago lest our parents freak out, but I feel like I should repay Mallory for the trust she’s shown in me tonight. “Earlier this month he visited and we got screamed at by some homophobes on the sidewalk. One of them threw a bottle at Sam and missed. That’s the worst it’s gotten for us, at least in terms of individual acts of bigotry. The systemic stuff is harder, you know, not being able to marry him. We’d like to do that one day but it’s hard to imagine it’ll happen.”

“Dad told me Sam wrote his undergrad thesis on a constitutional justification for same-sex marriage.”

“Yeah. He believes it, too. I don’t know what he’s going to do once he graduates Duke but…” I shrug. “He’s smart enough and passionate enough to change the way things are if he wants to.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Try going out there day after day and facing a world that says who you are is wrong, that how you love is wrong. It’s demoralizing. Sam wanted to work in Washington more than anything and he was completely out of steam after only a few months in the face of the opposition he garnered simply by living his life out of the closet. It sucks. It really sucks.”

“Eloquent,” she teases. I’m not sure which of us is more surprised when she follows that up by leaning in to kiss my cheek. “Thank you for being you and not listening to me when I told you to leave me alone.”

“Don’t mention it. And seriously, _don’t_ mention what I told you about the bottle-throwing incident. My parents don’t know, and I don’t need your dad knowing either.”

She frowns. “Okay, I guess. If you keep my confidence, I’ll keep yours.”

“Deal.”

“You know, I’m actually glad Mom and Dad dragged me here for the holiday. I’m _really_ glad they didn’t take me to New Hampshire.”

“New Hampshire?”

“Dad’s new best friend is Jed Bartlet.”

“The former Congressman?”

“Yeah. Dad’s been giving him some strategy pointers on a possible run for the Governor’s Mansion in 1990. That’s three years away and they’re already creating a war room to map out election strategies! Anyway, Bartlet tried to get us to join them in Manchester for the holiday. Thank God that was a nonstarter.”

“You don’t like him?”

“Never met him. Have you?”

“Nope.”

“I’m sure he’s fine but Manchester, New Hampshire is a huge drive and it’s bad enough being stuck in a car with my parents from Penn to Westport.”

“So it had nothing to do with being relieved that you got to spend the holiday with me?” I joke.

“Nope, sorry. Now spending the holiday with Sam on the other hand…”

“Dream on, Mallory Anne.” I grin. “You want to go back downstairs?”

She matches my smile. “Yeah, I do.”

***********************************************************************************************************************

By Saturday night, the group at the house has dwindled to me, Sam, and my parents. The McGarrys left this morning, and we sent Bill and Betty to Bradley Airport in a cab shortly after lunch. Sam and I cook dinner together -- paella -- and I let my mom think the reason it took me so long to become handy in the kitchen was my own laziness. But my dad wanders in when I’m adjusting a burner and I see the curious look on his face when I stand further back from the stove than strictly necessary, and I’m pretty sure he’s got me figured out.

***********************************************************************************************************************

“I really don’t want to leave in the morning.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean I _really_ don’t want to go.”

“I know!”

“It’s been so nice these past few days,” Sam sighs. His fingers skim over my forearm, smiling as the touch elicits a shiver. “It meant a lot to have my parents here.”

“Good.”

“And it’s always nice when I get to see Leo. I didn’t get to talk to Jenny much, but I like her a lot.” Sam only met Jenny once before, briefly, the night of Leo’s fortieth birthday party shortly after we began dating; Mallory had spent that summer at a study abroad program in Venice and was absent that night.

“She’s pretty cool.”

“Mallory scares me.”

“Amy scared you at first, too,” I remind him.

“Amy still scares me!”

“She scares me too,” I laugh. “At least Amy doesn’t have a massive crush on you.”

“What?!”

“Sam, how could you not notice that Mallory was trying not to throw herself at you for two whole days?” I exclaim.

“Because I wasn’t looking at Mallory very much, Josh, I was looking at _you_.”

“Oh.” I will neither confirm nor deny that I am grinning like a dork.

“I like looking at you,” he continues, his hands now working their way under my old Harvard sweatshirt and carelessly pulling it off. He grins that grin he only sports when my hair gets really messed up -- something that, for reasons passing my understanding, Sam always finds endearing. “I like looking at _this_ ,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my breastbone. “And this…” He shoves my pajama pants down, taking my boxers with them, and wraps his hand around my dick. “I _love_ looking at this.”

“Sam,” I groan softly.

“We have to be quiet,” he warns.

“No kidding. It’s probably best if both our mouths are occupied.” I deftly strip him and note with pride the gleam in his blue eyes as I maneuver him so we’re on our sides facing each other in a 69 position. “Let’s make this quick.”

“So romantic, Josh,” he says with an affected sigh.

“Shut up and suck my dick,” I order in a low voice.

Sam smirks but immediately complies, fisting my shaft to full hardness and swallowing it down halfway, sucking hard as he pulls back and releases the head with a wet pop. Goddamn, can he suck cock. I watch him for a few seconds, my body overheating at the sight of him taking pleasure solely from having his throat filled with my cock, then get to work sucking him hard and fast. Once he’s trembling under the onslaught I pull my mouth off his prick and take his balls into my mouth, sucking and licking at the soft, quivering flesh. Sam moans around my dick as I lavish his sac with my tongue, then draws in a huge breath through his nose when I slide further down to rim his hot little hole.

Among the many, many things that I love about sex with Sam is when I get to spread his ass open and fuck it with my tongue. He’s always responsive, but rarely more so than when I have my tongue up inside him, thrusting wantonly as deep as I can manage while my senses are overwhelmed by the musky taste of his hole. He’s absolutely fucking delicious. After a few minutes as my jaw begins to ache I pull back and place a series of open-mouthed kisses on his pucker, my tongue merely flickering over the sensitive hole. Sam is still working my cock with admirable focus, taking me far down his throat and humming softly with pleasure in a manner that sends vibrations through my whole body.

Neither of us will last long and I’m not going to risk staining these sheets. I draw Sam’s cock back into my mouth and focus all my energy on bringing him to orgasm with my lips and tongue dancing over the head, tasting the precum that trickles down my throat. God, I want him to cum for me. I want to taste every drop he can give me. One of my hands cups his balls, still slick with my saliva, and gently massages the thin skin. Come on, babe. Cum for me. As if to up the ante, Sam takes me in to the root and expertly works his throat around my dick.

I take his shaft deeper into my throat as I feel the quiver of his body signal his impending climax, and seconds later we’re coming almost simultaneously. We both swallow hard, our gasps and moans muffled by having our mouths blissfully filled with hard, hot flesh and spurts of sticky cum.

“I love how you taste,” Sam gasps when he’s regained enough of his equilibrium. His head rests on my thighs and he turns to press a lingering kiss to my limp cock.

“Was gonna say the same thing,” I yawn, drawing him up for a proper kiss, our tastes mingling as I suck on his tongue. “I love _you_.”

“Mmm, love you, too.”

“I guess we shouldn’t sleep naked in my parents’ house.”

“Probably a good idea,” he snickers. “We can sleep naked when you come to Durham in two weeks. I promise.”

“I’m holding you to that. Your ass is gonna be mine, Seaborn.”

“When is my ass not yours?”

I smirk and kiss the tip of his nose. “I’m thankful for your ass.”

“Excellent. I’m thankful you like to rim it.”

“We should develop an x-rated list of things we’re thankful for.”

“I’ve already got one in my head, trust me.” Sam finishes pulling his clothes back on and wrestles me back into my sweatshirt.

“I can dress myself, Sam,” I say with fond annoyance.

“I’m taking any opportunity I can get to touch you.”

“Ah-kay. Sam?”

“Go to sleep, sweetheart. You have to drive back to D.C. tomorrow and it’s already after 11:00.”

“Sa-a-am.”

“What?”

I nuzzle his cheek and smile. “I’m thankful for _you_.”


End file.
